Hetalia Fic Collection
by General Kitty Girl
Summary: A collection of drabbles, requests and gift fics based inside and out of the "You Were So Small" and "Never Your Hero" universe. Multiple characters, time periods, historical events and scenarios. Ratings and pairings will change accordingly. G-M rating **Cover Art by Pie** -New Fic: "Eternal Star", Greek Mythology!USUK
1. Your Eos

**~Your Eos~**

The air blowing into the villa was crisp and salty, rolling in off the ocean like castoff from Eos's rose colored hand stroking the surface of the sea. Dawn was a beautiful goddess; she painted the soft colors of morning across Nyx's darkened sky, and made way for her brother, the sun, to rise and warm the world. The dawn lived for such a short time, just an opening act at the start of each day, but she performed her part with such grace it was a shame more people didn't sing her praises...

Yet even though they did not, even though they treated her nocturnal predecessor with more reverence and her holy brother with more love, she still rose to fulfill her duties every morning in between the more glorious pair.

Forever faithful. Forever the unsung of the eternal trio...just like him.

"_Ehi_, _stronzo_!"

Olive colored eyes widened slightly, blinking away his somber musings as he turned his head from the window and was greeted with an explosion of slimy green innards from a less than ripened tomato to his face. Dusted bronze skin was now slick with the fleshy bits of obliterated fruit, the shock of which caused him to freeze in place and stare dumbfounded at the young teenager who threw it.

"You need to fix this, right now!"

Blinking in confusion, the Spaniard wiped a hand across his eyes to clear the gooey residue and shake away some of the seeds.

"_Mi tomate_...ah, _enfadado,_" he finished rather lamely, as he tried to understand what on earth possessed the violent little Italian to...okay, many things could have done it, he didn't necessarily need to be possessed for the mood to strike. "What has broken that I need to fix?"

"Your country!" The Italian screamed in exasperation, glaring at the still confused Spaniard as if this were the most obvious thing in the world. "Your stupid war with your stupid friends is causing the stupid crops not to flourish; my tomatoes won't grow! Now fix this mess or I'm going to give you what for!"

The Spaniard clicked his tongue and peeled a piece of green tomato skin from his cheek.

Oh. That mess.

His eyes travelled down from the Italian to the segment of fruit in his hand. It looked like flesh and blood spilled over in his palm and he sighed. The war had not been going well for him or his allies and it was taking a toll on his land...his economy...and his people. It had almost been six years since Prussia and France had broken pact with their friendship and turned the world upside down. He knew many other territorial disputes and alliances had caused the breakage, but the fact remained that night and day had turned swords and spears in each other's directions...leaving the dawn to choose a side. Spain had sided with its brother, France, and in so doing made enemies with nearly the whole of Europe, isolating itself from the rest of the world. What few other nations sided with a cause he scarcely remembered were nations with their own personal agendas, worlds away from him and the problems of his country. Resources were poured into this never-ending conflict, and his country suffered for it...

Romano and his people were suffering too, but the proud little Italian would rather throw tomatoes at him than admit it.

A soft and apologetic smile crossed the elder nation's face, his eyes still sad with his thoughts, but a laugh lit his voice. "_Discúlpame_, _mi tomate pequeño_, but have faith...I think we're finally making headway this time. _Inglaterra_ is too busy with his battles in _Canadá_, and my brother...he will not be able to count on much help when we begin the invasion in the coming months. Hopefully, this will all be over soon and your tomatoes will flourish again."

Romano's expression tightened, but Spain could see him fighting to keep hope from showing in his eyes. Romano had a fiery spirit and temper to match, but the boy had no more love of war than he did in seeing the dying vegetation he worked so hard to cultivate during his time in _'La Furia Roja'_. His words were often harsh and crude, but Spain had heard the beautiful songs he could sing. Romano often made gestures of violence with his hands, but the older nation had seen the magnificent gardens he could grow with his tender touch. His little Italian was small and only one representation of a greater land, but to Spain he was a marvelous and unique being all his own.

Few saw Romano as anything more than another territory to claim...but Spain saw him as a being gifted with the power of creation, so saddened by all the destruction around him. Destruction he helped to cause, and therefore was his responsibility to fix.

The elder nation left the coming glory of the sun and knelt before his Romano, the boy trying so hard not to cry as his dirt-covered hands fisted the gardening apron at his waist. The Spaniard reached up and gently wiped his thumb across his cheek, catching a tear before it stained that tiny face. "It will be alright, Romano. I promise...the dawn will always bring about an end to the night."

**~Fin~**

* * *

><p><em>Notes from the Author<em>:

Howdy, all! This is the first short of my small collection of drabbles, dribbles, requests, gift fics, and ECTs. I'm actually really excited (and nervous) about this little side project I've decided to undertake in conjunction with my massive project (currently, "Never Your Hero"), but I believe this is worth it! In this collection I hope to do some character experimentation, scene and setting play, and of course – thank my amazing readers and reviewers for sticking with me through thick and thin. :) You guys have been nothing short of awesome, and to show my gratitude, I've opened the floor for requests at this time and will take a total of 5 before I close it to work on them, my main fic, and then take more again. As my schedule is still hectic (read my profile page, nothing has changed in my real life wise) so please forgive me if I take a little bit with your fic; rest assured, I will get to it.

Now, to introduce this one! …Or…conclude it…YAY, FIRST EVER ATTEMPT AT WRITING ANTONIO AND ROMANO!

This is in dedication to my amazing Beta Editor, **Lady Hedervary** (now **AcquaToffana**), and **Eslyn**. Both of these wonderful ladies are huge fans of Spain/Antonio and Romano/South Italy, and after having gotten a rather befuddling "write a Spamano challenge", this was produced through inspiration from them. X3 Its short, sweet, and full of all that fluffy goodness I love to write~ So I hope you all enjoy it as much as they did!

-The setting for this fic is in a villa in Spain during the Seven Years War, as indicated by the pre-Spanish invasion of Portugal (who is the "brother" Antonio refers to) and England/_Inglaterra_ (the Spanish name) being engaged in warfare in Canada (yep, the Seven Years War really was a World War, if you will). If you've read my previous fics then you know my head-canon works to where the land and people are just as effected by the condition of their nation-tans/avatars, especially by events like wars, as the nation-tans/avatars are in turn by the states of their nations and how that nation is fairing in conflict. XD Love that double-edged sword to immortality…kinda balances it out, no? Poor Antonio and Romano~

-Though my historical familiarity in this area is far from the best, to my knowledge: South Italy (while it did change hands several times) was still under the rule of the House of Bourbon, rulers of Spain, during this time period of the Seven Years War…forgive me, to all my royalty savvy readers, for I am not a royalty savvy person...

That's all for this short, and again I hope you all have enjoyed it! At this time I open the floor for request fics and make known that I already have 2 spots taken. Note: Requests are encouraged to be from within the "You Were So Small" and the sequel "Never Your Hero" universes as…well, it's a lot easier for me to stick to that mindset given "Never Your Hero" is still on going (example: if you have a scene between characters, a flashback or a period of time that left you with a question in the fics...well, write it and I may answer with a fic! If you have an idea or a historical event you want written for, submit it - I'm open for ideas), but I will NOT enforce this if your request is doable in my book. THAT SAID, I do reserve the right to turn down requests if…like…you're one of those psychics who asks me to write something I'm already planning on writing in the story or something that would SO give away spoilers to the max (please don't let that stop you from asking anyway, I will let ya know if you're one of those gifted psychics~) or if you ask for something a little more explicit than I'm comfortable writing (yes, I've gotten those ^^; ).

Alrighty, folks, off to bed with me. Please feel free to drop me a line with any questions, comments, or concerns you might have and I'll be more than happy to get back to ya as soon as I can. X3 Till then, ya'll~

Sincerely,

_General Kitty Girl_


	2. Home of My Smile

**~Home of My Smile~**

_(UK & US)_

The harbor was in an absolute flurry of motion. Port hands raced from their stations to the docks as the lines were cast over the side of the mighty anchoring frigate, the ship nearly invisible beneath the veil of black smoke billowing from the gaping wounds along her haul. The only language being spoken was frantic sailor, at nothing less than a volume of screaming. The wooden skin of the vessel smoldered down to her creaking bones, as men inside and outside of her body threw water on the fires, trying desperately to control what remained of a hard-fought battle.

It was the aftermath of and encounter with the outnumbering French fleet. The result: at least the British still had a ship to sail.

The smell of her burning carcass wafted through the port and obscured the sky as flames continued to consume her. But she, like her captain, was too stubborn to sink, rathering to suffer the fire than the depths.

The red-clad sea captain had refused any kind of treatment until his crew and ship had been tended to, continuing to issue orders and commission a reparation company while cursing the French for having foolishly engaged him at sea. The unknowing mortals looking on had beheld the wounded man, skin stained as red as his coat, with a mixture of admiration and apprehension. How he could still be alive—let alone standing—had been everyone's question until his last attempt to shove a doctor off resulted in him falling to his knees…and then to the ground.

The doctor barely managed to remove the captain's waistcoat before the captain awoke and nearly crushed the man's hand in an iron grip, giving only one command:

"Take me home."

* * *

><p>By carriage, it took little over three hours to get to the manor beyond the young and bustling city of Boston, where the English dignitary had opted to keep his residence during the majority of his visits to North America. The secluded location amongst the largely undeveloped area was purposely chosen to ensure that the only people who dared to venture out so far had a very good reason for doing so. Given how often he was away, he frequently entrusted the care of his estate to a select few human servants who traveled far to tend to it. But today, the master intended to send them all away; every human on the premise had to be gone…<p>

He couldn't rest knowing they were there.

Finally, after several episodes of slipping in an out of consciousness and fighting to remain alert, knowing just how dangerous sleep would be in this stage of blood loss, he felt the carriage cease movement and sat in the dim silence of the coach. Blurry green eyes fell to his only good hand, shaking on his lap; the nails were caked with fresh and coagulated blood from having tried to remove as much shrapnel from his slowly healing body as possible. He closed his eyes and leaned back, a wave of nausea overcoming him as he felt the remaining pieces he failed to retrieve still moving inside with every breath.

His chest, his abdomen, and his legs were all damaged. He knew nothing but the sleeve of the coat he had slipped on after his last hit concealed the mangled mess that was his right arm. Had the human doctor removed the garments and seen its state during one of his unconscious episodes, he would have amputated it. The avatar couldn't afford that; he couldn't afford any human seeing any of his injuries and trying to "help" him.

He didn't remember when he closed his eyes and was lost to time again, but the almost frantic knocking at the door awoke him as he remembered where he was and that he had to get up. Locking his jaw, the Englishman readjusted his shirt and vest, closing his coat as well as he could, and rose to his feet when the panicked coachman yanked the door open and took a startled step back as his master emerged.

Other than his pale complexion beneath the bloody appearance, the captain looked no less the imposing figure he'd always been.

"Have the instructions been followed as directed?"

The coachman quickly drew himself up and nodded. "Y-yes, m'lord – delivered as – "

"DAD!"

The voice of the small child coming from the house caused both men to jump, but it was the wide-eyed captain who turned even paler and felt his heart seize in his chest. The human driver looked to his employer's expression, terrified that someone had not followed orders to remove the boy from the manor, and immediately raced towards the child to stop him from reaching the paralyzed nobleman.

"Young master, please, perhaps I should take you back inside for a – "

The child seemed to forget how to understand common tongue as he ignored the coachman and swiftly bypassed him, leaping from the steps leading to the path before the house and heading without a care for his true custodian. Nothing would stop him from finally getting to see his dad after so long, and given how tired the Englishman looked, he would save Arthur the trouble of coming to him.

He barely noted Arthur's condition before lunging at the adult nation, making the older man stumble as he clung his physically seven-year-old form to him. Arthur tried to conceal an agonized expression upon impact, and succeeded long enough to raise his good hand to stay the coachman racing to his rescue.

Again, the point of coming here had been to avoid any more human help…

Unable to pick the boy up, as he normally would have, Arthur rested his shaking hand on the lad's head and winced as he saw his blood transfer to the child's soft golden hair. He dismissed the coachman with a short word; the man hesitantly obeyed before leaving his unorthodox employer behind. Arthur listened to the carriage leave before closing his eyes, centering himself, and focusing on the boy.

Alfred. His Alfred.

"Lad…I had thought you'd have left with your governess…"

Keeping his small hands still tightly fisted in his adopted father's coat, oblivious of the blood on his cheek and forehead, Alfred looked up with a wide smile. "She thought so too, but then I would have missed you," he chirped, and slowly his face began to fall. "Dad…why's your body crying?"

Arthur looked puzzled for a moment, and then looked down to where Alfred had been pressing against him. His waistcoat was slick and resaturated with blood; Arthur could feel the heated streams pouring down his skin beneath the material from the wounds Alfred's embrace had reopened. A wave of lightheadedness overcame him, and his body swayed as Alfred looked up at him with wide and fearful eyes.

"D-Dad?"

"…It's…alright…Alfred…" he managed, losing his fight to remain standing as he went down on one knee.

"Dad!" Alfred exclaimed, his sky-blue eyes wide and shining as he kept his grip on Arthur's torso, leaning against the other to hold him up. His small arms were barely long enough to wrap around the adult nation for a proper hold.

The world swam with blackness and everything seemed far away, but Arthur could feel Alfred going to the ground with him and heard the lad crying. He was afraid; afraid for him…he didn't want Alfred to ever be afraid. A father's job was to protect his child from things to be afraid of…for as long as possible. He had to take away that which made Alfred afraid…

He had to assure him that it would be all right.

"I'll wake up, Alfred…then…we can go…home…"

* * *

><p><em>Arthur had returned to the same spot in the same field every day he found himself in the colonies. Since he'd first seen the boy who embodied the land he had made it a personal goal to meet the lad and do what no other colonizer could: Claim him. Child forms of their kind were incredibly rare, and in the imperial race they were more valuable than gilded treasure. This small boy had been seen by multiple nations who had all failed to court his favor, but the most successfully noted to date had been his nemesis France…he couldn't allow that.<em>

It wouldn't take long after arriving for the boy to appear; almost like clockwork, the small golden-haired child would cautiously observe him from the tree line, sometimes venturing close, and watch him with the bluest eyes Arthur had ever seen. Even Arthur had to admit how greatly those eyes had caught him off-guard the first time he had seen them; it was like seeing the essence of the sky embodied in human form.

_Like a spirit, the child seemed as wild and untamed as the world he called home. Sometimes he arrived incorrectly dressed in clothes left to him as offerings by hopeful nations, and other times with nothing at all. He seemed so curious about all of these older beings of his kind leaving gifts – taking the oddest ones (like baubles and shiny materials) while leaving what most would consider sensible (like food or religious relics). Sometimes he left gifts of his own in the form of rearranging the offerings with flowers, branches, and stones from the surrounding land – taking only an item or two for his labor that would strangely enough appear in a trove elsewhere. Arthur had heard stories of French offerings being exchanged with Dutch ones, and a time or two a rather bewildered Spaniard returned to find a strange sculpture of edible Finnish goods where once had been a small pile of gold._

_Arthur didn't think the boy knew the value of Spanish doubloons, as more than once he had returned to his place in the field and found mounds of gold waiting for him…though he never left anything for the boy but his company._

_Today, as he approached the undesignated location in the field, he raised his head and stopped himself short as he beheld his spot occupied…by none other than the child himself._

_The lad was garbed in what looked like a white linen gown, one meant for a child here in the colonies or Europe, and a red ribbon haphazardly fitted about the collar. The white cloth was soiled with dirt-covered handprints and grass stains, and wrinkled from the obvious struggle it took to tie it properly. The child's feet were still bare and filthy, but if the boy was bothered by it, it never showed. He looked up at Arthur's surprised face with his large sky-blue eyes and quietly watched him._

_He looked like he was waiting for something, but Arthur couldn't fathom what._

"…_Hello."_

_The child blinked and tilted his head a little. He made a face like he was struggling with something, opening and closing his mouth a few times before replying, "A-awo…"_

_The Englishman seemed struck – the lad actually spoke to him! The novelty of the situation had caused him such a pause that the boy's expression seemed to fall and he held his hands in front of him a little tighter. His body language spoke of self-consciousness, and Arthur noticed it when the boy lowered his head, but never took his eyes from the elder's face. The imperial embodiment felt an odd emotion welling inside of him, and before the nautical master could stop himself…he smiled._

_He understood now: dressing up, arriving before their unofficially scheduled time, and confronting him like this…the boy was trying to impress him. He had given him a gift more valuable than Spanish gold._

_The civilly dressed pirate softened his expression and the boy seemed to respond to it. "My name is Arthur…do you have a name?"_

_The boy gave another owlish blink and tilted his head to the side again. He scrunched his face, looking puzzled and determined as he replied, "M-my nawm is Awfur…do…you hab nawm?"_

_While the child's response staggered the Englishman, the boy looked most pleased with himself. It took the Arthur a moment to realize that the child…had no idea what he was saying. The boy was repeating everything he said as best he could in an attempt to communicate. But then again…it made perfect sense. The child had always run from any of the colonists here and the other nations who had attempted a meeting like this. Other than perhaps overhearing them and listening to conversation from afar, he wouldn't know the languages of Europe. This certainly made things more difficult, but the lad was trying. Arthur found that he admired that._

_The boy was watching him again, and now Arthur suspected he was waiting for him to say something so he could learn new words to communicate with. He genuinely wanted to converse with him; of all nations who had desperately tried to capture his attention he wanted to take a chance with the most feared and reviled of them all. The dreaded upstart of Europe…_

"_Aren't you…afraid of me?" Arthur asked, knowing the child didn't understand, but felt the need to ask regardless. _

_Everyone was afraid of him, why should this child be different?_

_The boy tilted his head again, an action Arthur was beginning to find rather endearing, as he seemed to process the sounds and decide how best to imitate them. Only, as Arthur waited to hear him repeat the words, the boy just smiled wide and shook his head, "No."_

_Arthur stared at the boy, bewildered and astounded by this child's endless ability to surprise him. The sea captain couldn't formulate a response in time before the boy looked down from his face to his clothing. The child seemed hesitant at first, but then made a quick glance at the adult's face before darting forward and Arthur felt something invade his pocket. On instinct he moved down to catch the tiny hand, but the boy was quick and had returned to his spot before Arthur had even seen the flash of white vanish. He looked back at the boy and saw him turning a gold coin over in his hands. He appeared absolutely fascinated with the glittering metal trinket before he smiled up at Arthur and presented the coin like a trophy._

_Arthur again found the lad incomprehensible, but then looked down at his pocket again and found…a flower protruding from it? He withdrew the stemmed blossom and found it to be a yellow daisy._

_Yellow, or gold like his coin._

_Ah. He understood now._

"_So you've learned how to barter?" Arthur asked with a chuckle. "Hmm…perhaps I should teach you the value of things next."_

_The child seemed to understand something in his words as his face lit up like the sun with absolute joy. He made an odd gesture of touching the coin to his forehead before turning and running back into the forest._

_Arthur immediately jumped to pursue him, but stopped himself as he realized that this would be far from their last meeting. The child was strange indeed, but still curious and wanted very much so to interact with him – if years of politics had taught him one thing, it was that those who wanted something would always return until they were satisfied. He just had to be patient. _

_Looking down at the flower the boy had left…he felt it safe to say that he might not have to wait so long._

_After that, Arthur extended his time in the colonies and returned every day to the field where the child would be waiting for him. The boy always wore the filthy white robe he must have gotten from one of the other nations as a gift, though over time it became far from wearable from continuous wear. Arthur eventually brought him a new robe made as closely resembling the old one as possible – and to his delight, the boy received it better than the other precious treasures he normally took after their meetings. After a few weeks, Arthur had a nearly full vase of flowers in his stateroom at the port, a small box of smooth pebbles, and a few jay and eagle feathers. The child seemed to love bringing him gifts, and truth be told, Arthur had begun to not mind relinquishing treasure to the lad who only saw value in it because it came from him._

_Along the way, he had taught the boy new words and ways to communicate beyond simple body language and sounds. He had been pleased to see how sharp the child was and how much he absorbed in such a short period of time. The Englishman actually looked forward to his visits to the field, regardless of the weather (which was usually much warmer than the usual temperature of Britain). What had begun as the fulfillment of a personal conquest and snub to France was actually turning into something enjoyable…_

_On his last day returning to the field, the child was there, sitting among the wildflowers and holding a small white rabbit. It wasn't unusual for the boy to have animals with him; in fact they seemed naturally attracted to him. Birds often ventured close without a second thought, deer would sometimes walk right up behind him to continue grazing without so much as a glance at the two human-like beings in their company. At present, the boy held the complacent creature as it slept in his arms, twitching only slightly as it dreamt._

_Arthur greeted the boy with a smile, which wasn't hard; the child just had that effect on him. "Good morning, lad. How are you today?"_

_Sky-blue eyes lit up and a wide smile drew across his face. "Well, Awfur, fank you."_

_His speech impediment was most charming, and Arthur slid his hands into his pockets and began to thumb the small jewel he'd brought for when their meeting ended today. "Would you like me to tell you a story today, or would you like to tell me one?"_

_The boy perked up at this; Arthur found that the boy loved listening to his stories – whether they be about the legends of his homeland or his time at sea. Even if the boy didn't understand all he said, he never diverted his attention from the Englishman when he was speaking, as if the tales positively enthralled him. When the lad tried his hand at stories, they tended to be half in his strange childish English and the other half in facial expressions and gestures. Most of them seemed to be about experiences he had had or things he learned from the native tribes of his land. Arthur paid less attention to the content and more to helping the boy translate his motions into properly formulated English. The easier it was for them to communicate, the longer the meetings seemed to last; their longest yet was from the early morning until dusk, and the boy nearly fell asleep resting against his leg as he recanted the tale of Sir Gawain and the Green Knight._

_Arthur half expected to be asked for another such King Arthur story when the boy's expression suddenly tightened and he began to chew his bottom lip. Arthur was beginning to learn that this was a sign of nervousness and waited for the child to voice his thoughts._

_He opened his mouth a few times, thought over his words once more, then looked up and said, "I dunno how to awsk it."_

_Arthur raised an eyebrow, "What do you wish to ask?"_

_The boy lifted his rabbit as if presenting it to the Englishman, the creature just waking up, before the boy held it close to his chest again and stroked its head to calm it. "Dat."_

_Frowning in confusion, Arthur looked down at the rabbit and then back to the boy quizzically. "Do you wish for me to hold the rabbit?"_

_The lad's eyes went as wide as saucers and he seemed excited, as though that was what he wanted, but he shook his head and smiled. "No, me! Can you do dat wif me?"_

_Arthur's mouth fell open and a small sound of surprise escaped him. Hold him? He wanted him to…pick him up? It wasn't that he thought it would be a laborious task, he had lifted grown men with little difficultly and he was sure his sword weighed more than the boy, but…he had never held a child before. A sudden fear gripped him at the thought of holding this small boy. What if he couldn't hold him right? What if he held on too tight or let go? What if he hurt him without meaning too; he was the British Empire, not exactly a delicate paternal figure._

_Then again, if someone told him just a year ago that he was capable of willingly teaching a child to speak English, tell him stories, and spend hours on end for months being a mentor…he would have laughed the person off the foredeck and likely into the unforgiving waters of the Atlantic._

_Arthur swallowed nervously. "I…suppose I could, lad…but why do you ask?"_

_The child's head tilted downward, his hands still occupied with the rabbit, as his expression suddenly became saddened, making Arthur's chest tighten. "…Dat's how bigger…people say hewo to the children who go home and don't play with me anymore. They look happy," he said, biting his lower lip as he self-consciously looked back up at Arthur with large blue eyes. "We could be happy wike dat too, wight?"_

_In all his years, he could never recall a time he had seen or heard such a thing and been so affected by it. Inside felt tight and warm, and his expression reflected the kind of empathy of one who understood without consciously remembering why. Without a word, the Englishman took to one knee and opened his arms to the child. The boy looked unsure for a moment…then slowly set the rabbit down on the ground._

_It didn't take longer than the rabbit clearing his path for the boy to jump into Arthur's arms, and the Englishman to wrap them tightly around the small form. The child was warm and smelled liked a sun-kissed forest, his tiny hands clinging to the empire's red coat as he buried his face in the other's chest. The lad was so small, and the tiny body was like nothing Arthur had ever held before; he was soft, breathing evenly, and Arthur could feel his heartbeat against his arms and chest. He'd never felt anything that fit more perfectly, and in that moment he was addicted to the sensation._

_For once the imperial conquest didn't matter – snubbing France and winning the race for treasure and territory didn't matter. Just holding the boy and marveling at the feeling that mutual completion brought was the only thing in the world._

_He really was…happy._

"_Lad…would you like to come home?"_

* * *

><p>Arthur opened his eyes for what felt like the first time in over a hundred and thirty years. His green orbs were still dull and hazy with fatigue, but at least he was awake. As for his body, beyond the discomfort and stiffness associated with having remained in a single position for too long, he was pain-free. He stared up at the undecorated ceiling for a while and vaguely wondered where he was. Slowly, he turned his head and found himself lying flat along what appeared to be a sofa in some kind of sitting room. It offset him for a moment, until he remembered the circumstances under which he had returned to his colony.<p>

He was ready to push himself into an upright position when he achieved an angled view of his torso and found himself…almost completely covered in white linen strips.

As it was a most peculiar sight, being fully clothed in the crimson crushed velvet and bloodstained clothing he'd been wearing upon his arrival, yet somehow bandaged head to foot in quite possibly the worst attempt at first aid he had ever seen; Arthur couldn't help the long moment of suspended animation that followed his discovery.

The sound of footsteps in the hall suddenly skidding to a stop couldn't even tear his gaze away from the slightly soiled crisscrossing of haphazardly strewn cloth about his body. It was like a basket of discarded sewing fabrics had exploded on him and no one bothered to right the grievance.

"D-Dad, you're awake!"

That pulled his attention from the mess, as the Englishman turned his head and beheld the sight of his highly excited, yet incredibly nervous son who looked ready to tackle him as he had when he first arrived, but was too afraid to. Arthur looked the boy over from head to toe and saw his shirt sleeves rolled up, his feet and shins shoeless and leggingless, and his hair a bedraggled episode in attempting to imitate an exotic bird. Honestly, the boy might be gracing close to one hundred and forty, but he looked like a seven-year-old ruffian!

"Alfred…"

"I-I can explain!" The boy interrupted, waving his arms with a frantic expression.

Arthur was most eager to hear this.

"Uh, um…y-you see…You were hurt, I-I hadn't seen you like that before," He said, unable to stop himself from gnawing on his lower lip again as his hands moved about conveying what his words seemed to be failing. "I…I was scared, dad; your body was crying a lot. I didn't know what to do. I knew you'd be mad if I took your clothes off since, well, it's not proper and all, s-so I just…" His eyes began to shine as he fought not to let the tears spill, his hands now fisted at the hem of his shirt, constantly wringing it like a dish towel. "I ran out of bandages, s-so I took some of the…bed linens and tried to improvise. I'm sorry, please don't be mad! I was just scare and put them wherever I saw…ya know, and I had to change them a few times since you've been out for a few days, and – "

The sudden sound of deep rolling laughter cut the boy's ramble off, making him start as he looked up to find Arthur flopped back on the couch, an arm over his still poorly bandaged head, and his whole body shaking with uncontrollable laughter.

Somewhere between mortally embarrassed and a bit affronted, Alfred approached the sofa and wearily looked down at his father who, in his entire memory of knowing him, had never made such a hilarious display. Quite frankly, it was most offsetting for the child.

One would never know that days before he had been chock full of shrapnel and splinters from cannon fire having obliterated his vessel, and one would never think that the man had nearly died from all the blood loss.

Alfred, if he had understood the circumstances, would have scarcely believe it; he had been so scared when his father collapsed on him outside and continued to bleed all the way into the house, where Alfred had only just managed to get him into the sitting room since the bedroom was too far. The boy had spent most of the past few days scrubbing the stone outside and the wooden floors inside clean of blood, nervously watching over his father and redressing what bandages he could. The sofa he had managed to lay Arthur on was completely soaked through with blood that had long since dried into the fabric, making it a goner and Alfred worried that it might upset his dad whenever he finished sleeping so soundly.

The boy had had no idea what had hurt his father so badly, but had kept his head about him long enough to remember that when he had had injuries that cried (how Arthur had originally explained bleeding to him and it just kind of stuck), his father had taken bandages and applied pressure to seal the wounds. Alfred had tried his best, but there were so many and he hadn't been able to bring himself to take off his father's clothes when he knew that wasn't socially acceptable.

Since dad usually yelled at him for running around without clothes on, he could only imagine how badly he might yell if he woke up and was _himself_ without clothes.

Doing his best with what he had he thought he had done a good job. Dad's body had stopped crying, hadn't it?

Looking crestfallen and sheepish, Alfred looked down at his bare feet as Arthur's laughter slowly tapered off into deep chuckles and a sigh. Alfred looked up when he knew the other was looking at him, and met the Englishman's smile with another nervous expression.

"…So…you're not mad…right?"

Arthur shook his head and opened his arms with silent beckon. Alfred hesitated only to eye the semi-clean bandages (he didn't want to hurt his dad again) before entering Arthur's embrace and letting the Brit clasp him and roll him over so that he lay atop the elder's chest and stomach. Alfred finally smiled and rested his head beneath Arthur's chin and enjoyed being held. Arthur in turn enjoyed holding his incredibly kindhearted, albeit unusual, son and stroked the back of his head with his newly healed right hand and arm.

"It's good to be home, lad. It's good to be home."

_**~Fin~**_

* * *

><p><em>Notes from the Author<em>:

[[UPDATE: Reedited and reuploaded. :) 12/19/11]]

Short fic NUMBER TWOOOOOO! And YAY, its my Alfred and Arthur again! XD This is tied to my fanfics "You Were So Small" and "Never Your Hero" (consider this like the ubber long flashback that was mentioned in chapter 4, when Arthur is reminiscing about Alfred's first first-aid job ever, that never made it into the fic – but was instead a…like paragraph XD). So…um…YAY AGAIN FOR TURNING PARAGRAPHS INTO DRABBLES!

This fic is actually a gift one for **mtr0623** on deviantart, who I've been meaning to gift for the longest time and finally got around to doing it in between two requests I'm working on (one about the Civil War, as asked by and Annonymous reviewer here, and another that's rather a surprise and shant be posted for a while) and, of course, the next chapter of "Never Your Hero" (WHICH IS ALMOST COMPLETE, YUS!). Anywho, to the most adorable Colonial!American cosplayer I've ever had the pleasure of meeting, XD this one's for you!

NOTE TIME!

-Time period: ARTHUR'S JUST ENDING HIS PIRATING YEARS! That's right, he's turning in the buccaneering life for parenthood. XD Good man (hey, I know we all love a good Pirate!England…maybe I'll do one of those later~ ;) )! For the "present day" scenes we're just starting/about to start the Seven Years War in the North American theater, and Alfred is physically about 8…though his actual age is between 130-140 (yikes, these guys age slow). The naval battle is purely fictional (though I'm sure they happened…okay, I know they happened, just not this one), and Boston was still the biggest port in America at the time.

-Oh, the "upstart of Europe" comment, I totally credit to KitakLaw. (I laughed forever at that!)

-If you're a reader of my other fics, then you've guessed that Arthur is a much, MUCH slower healer than his counter parts…this is part of my head-canon that I'll explain in a later fic, but for now, just suffice to say that "Damn, Arthur is at the bottom of the pack when it comes to healing".

-In my head-canon (as I explained in chapter 9 of "Never Your Hero"), Alfred is actually a kind of "wild-child" and sees himself more as a spirit than an actual person before the European nations arrive in North America. He spends a lot of time watching and running away from them, but not much time interacting with them until Arthur's unique approach of using only himself and not gifts makes him curious. XD I wanted to explain that more here as Alfred started to see Arthur's company and what he can teach him as more valuable than the items he large offerings he gets from other nations that really don't mean anything to him. At the same time, I kind of wanted to explain my own theory on the transition taking place for Arthur between his own wilder years I believe he had as a pirate and becoming a more serious imperial power. X3 I'll let ya'll read into and decide what'cha like from there, but I hope this deepens the relationship seen in my other two fics even more…considering this is my head-canon version of how they came to be together. XD (Not that there's anything wrong with the canon version – I DID TRY TO INCORPERATE ELEMENTS OF IT HERE!)

-Ah, also in my head-canon: Arthur doesn't actually give Alfred his name until later on in…life. XD He just calls him names of endearment, like "lad", "boy", "son", "!#$*!" and stuff like that 'till then. X3

As of right now, I've started a couple more of these diddies and finished two, so I'll open up a few more request spots for the time being. 8D Until next time, folks, I hope you've enjoyed!

Sincerely,

_General Kitty Girl_


	3. Forgive Me, One Day

**~Forgive Me, One Day~**

(_US_ & _UK_)

An earthen white cloud; a weightless formation of organic fibers plucked from the razored bolls of the plants that bore them. White gold no longer meant the wool of sheep, but this small, soft breath in his hand. This unspun, imperfect ball that would someday become part of the finest clothes made by human hands; a blanket fit for the king's priest, or a robe for his majesty himself.

To think, betrayal had been bought with the potential in this insignificant uncut diamond.

"I didn't authorize this," he said in a low tone. "And you knew I wouldn't."

The man standing behind him looked neither ashamed nor concerned. With his hands clasped behind his back, he watched as the departed ship continued to vanish on the horizon. It was a crown jewel of the sea, a fine warship made by British hands and commissioned with Confederate white gold.

"She's not the first," the man replied.

"No…but I will ensure she is the last."

Silence hung in the air between them – a Confederate naval officer, and the British gentleman. What had begun that morning as an inquiry with the prime minister into the claims that British shipbuilding companies were taking contracts from the war-torn America, aiding in furthering the tensions there, had resulted in a frantic run for the Plymouth seaport.

He'd been too late to stop the ship, and now watched powerless as she sailed back to the war across the Atlantic.

"I assure you, Lord Kirkland, the utmost secrecy was used in her creation," the American began. "Not even you knew she existed until now."

When the blond said nothing, the Southern gentleman stepped forward, still watching the horizon with pride. "The stance on neutrality has not been breeched; this is simply a business transaction between myself and the John Laird Sons and Company. No more need be said."

A lie concealed in a thin veil of truths no one without a stake in the matter would bother to see through. The universal reality of war was that it brought needs; needs that sell-swords, privateers and entrepreneurs had been capitalizing on since the dawn of trade. No nation was free of the sins wrought by the promise of gain despite loss of life, but this…

He might as well have taken both ends of America and ripped it apart himself.

Unclenching his hand, Arthur let the forgotten wad of cotton stray in the wind, still feeling the sting of its uncombed thorns in his skin. He watched it disappear as he did the now vanished ship and felt his chest constrict, both from anger and grief.

"It is written by a man named Alighieri that the lowest circle of Hell is reserved for traitors, Mr. Bulloch."

The American narrowed his eyes and focused his intense glare on Lord Kirkland's back. "As I said when presenting Captain Semmes his commission, we are sons of the South and will do all it takes to see the Confederate States of America free of its northern oppressor."

Arthur let those words settle in his mind as he recalled a similar retort said so long ago…so many times, ago. How many agents of revolution had commissioned similar acts and thought nothing of their treason? How many times had he done it himself…how many times had he been accused of being the tyrant?

"…If your so-called North is your only standard for oppression, then you, sir, clearly have no idea what a true oppressor is," Arthur began, and finally turned burning green eyes upon the man who used the labor of his land to bring suffering to a place he once called home. "Never cross my path again, Mr. Bulloch, or I assure you I will give you a true lesson in oppression."

* * *

><p>The vessel, known as the <em>Enrica<em> when she left English waters, claimed the fates of 65 American Union ships. With an American captain and primarily British crew, the _CSS Alabama_ had devastated shipping lines from France, to Brazil, to Cape Hope. Together with her sister ships combing the ocean; they had all but crippled the Union sea trade.

It had been more than two years since Arthur stood on the docks of Plymouth and watched the great ship elude him, just as she had every captain who had ever sailed after her since. Aside from preventing any more British-made ships leaving for Confederate commission, Arthur had done his best to keep out of America's Civil War and focus on the affairs of his own country. However, while he busied himself keeping a closer eye on his neighbors, France and Germany, the actions of Napoleon and Bismarck couldn't fully distract him from the effect the war between Lincoln and Davis was having on his former America. He couldn't escape thinking about his sky-blue eyed son when he stood before the members of Parliament, in audience with his Prime Minister or his majesty, and especially when he found himself alone in his estate…with nothing but his thoughts and memories for company.

The memories were both painful and bittersweet.

"You've got that look about you again, _Lloegr_. You're thinking faraway thoughts."

Arthur said nothing as he stood before the hearth of his study. The flames glowed and danced to the slow melody of crackling embers, giving off the sweet smell of burning wood that triggered so many reminiscences within in him.

The slight man who had entered the room approached him from behind, coming to a halt beside the Englishman as he crossed his arms and leaned back against the fireplace. The man had dark auburn hair full of curls that fell about his ears; his skin was lightly tanned and his eyes were the darkest color of honeyed brown. His brows were thick, much like his English companion's, but his face seemed far younger. The wiry fellow had a lighter air about him and a softer expression than his counterpart. He seemed inquisitive; yet patient…he always had that look for his youngest brother.

"You survived more than one, _brawd_," the man offered in a calm tone.

"But he is not me," Arthur returned, closing his eyes, some part of him hoping it would shut his brother out from the turmoil inside.

The brunette smiled and rested his head against the stone wall, watching his sibling try to keep secret the obvious. "Thank the Christian God for that."

Though it was a jab at him, Arthur knew it was done so without malice. Of all his brothers, his Welsh counterpart was the only one who could look at him with genuine affection and attempt to make it contagious. Despite a long history of wars on political and battle fronts, his second-eldest brother refused to turn his back on the rebellious child he'd been entrusted to eons ago. Whether it was eternal loyalty to his female predecessor or loyalty to the thick familial blood between them, the man never gave up on him…

Emrys was the only family member Arthur had who knew just how much America's Civil War was tearing him to pieces.

Arthur lifted his head and looked up at the mantle above the fireplace, his eyes settling on the books lined there without focusing on any of them.

"My kingdom is supposed to be neutral, yet more than half of the British-made ships in commission for the Confederate States are manned by British sailors, armed with British weapons and secretly funded by British pounds," he began, remembering every roster he received bearing the names of more casualties his people had suffered in this foreign conflict. "Civil Wars are supposed to be private affairs…yet my country watches it with such eager anticipation I cannot help but feel sick."

Silence stretched between them as Arthur leaned forward and braced himself against the stone of the fireplace, tightening his grip on it. "It's like cheering on the executioner as he quarters a child."

The Welshman gave a thoughtful expression as he watched his brother try desperately to hide his pain. The older man understood as all ancient nations did about the terrors of a land ripping itself to shreds; as one who had endured watching Arthur battle through his own civil wars…from both sides of each conflict, he sympathized with both the Englishman and the American boy he'd never met.

He derived no pleasure from seeing Arthur suffer during those times of civil unrest, much as Arthur gained nothing but anguish seeing Alfred struggle across the Atlantic.

The Welshman withdrew a folded document from his coat and held it out to his brother with an offered hand. Arthur returned his gaze, but did not move to take it; all letters he had received lately only bore horrible news.

After a moment, the Welshman spoke, "The ship known as the _CSS Alabama_ was engaged and sunk today off the coast of France."

A visible jolt shot through Arthur's body, but Emrys continued. "The USS _Kearsarge _tracked her down as she was leaving Cherbourg; the estimated number of casualties was forty, with forty-one survivors rescued by a British yacht...they made it to Southampton a few hours ago. The crew has been placed under asylum until further notice."

Arthur remained staring at the man and the letter in tense silence. His mind worked through all of the possible scenarios of what had happened – from naval battle to the arrival at the port, and finally what would happen once the _Kearsarge_ returned to America's Union and reported what had taken place. As soon as word of a British rescue of the Confederate crew reached circulation the entire North would be in an uproar. Relations between the Union and Great Britain were already tense because of the suspected Anglo favor of the South…this would only incite a maelstrom of political and public fury.

With numb fingers, Arthur took the letter from his brother's hand and held it before him long enough to see the official Naval seal before throwing it into the fire. Emrys said nothing as Arthur pitched the document, and the Welshman watched as the anger and anxiety rose in the man's eyes. Arthur's hands were clenched and tight at his sides, his eyes blazing with hate for the present and fear for the future; there was tension in his shoulders and his breaths were shallow and fast. They both knew what this meant, but Emrys did his brother no service by hiding the truth, and they both knew it.

"…It's best to know now before the inquiries come later,_ Lloegr_," the brunette began. "If there is any consolation from this to be had…it is that this ship is no longer in commission."

Arthur's face reddened at that and he turned an angry expression towards the Welshman.

"Even more British blood has been shed in this God-forsaken war, and I am to celebrate it before the hammer across the sea comes down to demand payment for losses already suffered?" he demanded, raising a fist to slam it against the mantle above the fire. "I warned Palmerston and Russell that there would be consequences to any kind of involvement in this, and not just on the political front, but from –" Arthur stopped himself and quickly looked away as his thoughts trailed off without a voice.

But Emrys didn't need to hear it, he knew. Without a word he pushed off the wall and stepped towards his brother, placing a hand on the other's shoulder that Arthur never acknowledged. The Welshman gave him a comforting squeeze before leaning in to offer what advisement he could.

"The actions of our government and what we feel is right don't always coincide. You've known this for a long time…perhaps this is an opportunity to teach him that."

"…Even if my words were allowed to reach Alfred…he would never accept them," Arthur returned, his heart breaking at the thought as his anger became replaced with sorrow. "I wouldn't in his place either."

Emrys knew Arthur needed time to think and sort out his situation and his feelings. What brilliance the man had in politics and warfare he sadly lacked in personal communication and emotions. Clasping his brother's shoulder again and bidding him good night, the Welshman took his leave to begin drafting a response to the ashes in the fireplace. He decided he could at least deal with the wolves for a time while Arthur was facing his own demons.

Emrys's words stayed with Arthur that night, and long after his brother's departure the Englishman found himself before a long-forgotten chest buried in the recesses of his cellar. This particular corner of the storage vault was nigh inaccessible and inhabited only by the most valuable items Arthur felt worth preserving over the course of his long life. Within a trunk of clothing, beside his tattered crimson uniform, was the article he sought…and for the first time in almost eighty-three years he ran a hand over the faded surface…and remembered how much a single act of kindness had meant to him.

* * *

><p><em>One thousand, four hundred and fifty eight…<em>

He knew so many days had passed since then, but he was forever stuck on that number.

_One thousand, four hundred and fifty eight…_

No passage of time made sense to either part of him back then except counting how many sunrises each man on the battlefield had been blessed with greeting. It meant he too had made it through the night, and gave him one more prayer that he might see another. That seemed to be the only peace he found inside – the only thing his two halves of his land, his being, could agree on. He had counted one thousand, four hundred and fifty-eight sunrises without ever seeing a ray of sunlight, always trapped in that room beneath the White House where he couldn't harm himself, or anyone else. He said more prayers back then than he could remember, far more than one thousand, four hundred and fifty-eight, but he was sure no less than that. He didn't always remember what he prayed, either, but he knew he had never prayed for what some of the men he heard screaming in his head were praying for…

He never prayed for death, and he never prayed for any of his citizens on either side to die.

More than one thousand, four hundred and fifty-eight of his people had lost their lives over those one thousand, four hundred and fifty-eight days. He remembered so many names and faces of people he had never met or known, yet he saw them when they took up arms, when they lay dying, and when they drew their last breaths. He screamed with so many in the dark when their visions faded, cried with others as they watched every drop of their own blood drain away, and tried to hold others when they lay alone in their trenches and tried to remember why this was all worth dying for. He couldn't find a cause to sympathize with or hate; he couldn't find a leader he loved or loathed more, and were it not for his oath to Lincoln he wasn't sure he could justify remaining complacent for so long in confinement while so many died. It had been nothing short of hell, and when it was all over he couldn't stop thinking:

_One thousand…four hundred…fifty…eight…_

It had been seven years and three Presidents since then; and now, for the first time since his latest boss was sworn in, he found himself back in Washington. The days after the war had been as difficult as they'd been during it, and President Lincoln had done all he could to see to his charge's wellbeing upon the signing of the Confederate surrender at Appomattox. While Alfred had been completely unapproachable during those more than four years of war, he'd been near unresponsive afterwards. Human medical attention was almost completely ineffective, but there was no lack of trying on his boss's part. He had begun an upturn in health before Lincoln's assassination, and Johnson's term did little to strengthen the avatar or the country's condition. It took Alfred exiling himself from Washington to improve things, and slowly but surely he had begun to find renewed strength in renewing his bonds with his people. The government was forever in a frenzy, and while the war had left a severe divide between his regions the people were rebuilding relations faster than the politicians.

The people were inventing, growing, creating and moving. They were traveling, trading, sharing and determined to move forward in a way that inspired Alfred.

They healed him better than Washington ever could, and returning to it had only filled him with anxiety and dread.

As Alfred journeyed down the halls of the White House, many unfamiliar faces turned and gave him suspicious glances. Many unfamiliar people paused, and looked prepared to stop him, before his uncaring air brushed them off as he continued on his way. Security was a new concept to Washington, something only recently implemented after Lincoln's assassination, and it was only after Alfred reached the Oval Office that a man in a black tie and waistcoat rushed towards him and demanded he halt.

Alfred gave him one look and didn't so much as bat an eye, but stopped…only because President Grant was opening the door.

Grant was an old warhorse, a man with a military cut from his head to his chin. He dressed in sharp suits and uniforms with creases that could cut steel and an expression that could equal the damage. Alfred had only met him once when he was a general, and once as President when he was being sworn in. His last trip to Washington had only been to renew his oath to his new boss before he returned to travelling, where his heart truly belonged, and now he only returned because he had received a telegram ordering his presence here again.

President Grant wasn't a man who requested anything. Period.

The guard froze as Grant and Alfred exchanged looks before the blond was silently ushered in. The door was shut and locked behind them and Alfred's anxiety began to rise even more. He was beginning to feel claustrophobic and trapped. He hadn't been locked in a room in Washington in just over six years.

"You seem to have settled in nicely, sir," Alfred offered, trying to hide his discomfort.

Grant didn't return the comment as he made his way to his desk and rounded it, withdrawing a document from a drawer and unraveling it before him.

Alfred could see that his boss was ready to get down to business.

"In summation of the meeting concluding the Treaty of Washington, previously conducted on the 8th of March, 1871: the British Empire, Dominion of Canada, and United States of America hereby agree to officially complete the demilitarization of the U.S. – Canadian border. The British Empire and Dominion of Canada also open U.S. fishing activities into specified Canadian territorial waters and open further industrialization into the Great Lakes," Grant said in a deep and gravelly voice, continuing on despite the look on his audience's face. "It is also hereby established that, this year 1872, the British Empire will pay the sum of 15.5 million dollars to the United States of America for damages caused by vessels which were a violation of neutrality committed by means of the construction, equipment, and armament of said vessels during the periods of 1861 to 1865."

_One thousand, four hundred and fifty-eight._

As the President placed the document on the desk, Alfred continued to stare ahead with an overwhelmed expression. He had known Britain had been involved in helping the South during the war; he had sailed on some of those British-made ships during his fitful nights and even stood as a phantom next to a Confederate broker closing a deal with another English arms dealer. He never left his cell during those days, but he had seen everything; everywhere there had been an American from either side he had seen it, and it made his stomach churn.

He couldn't deny that some part of him had asked if Arthur hadn't condoned all of it. If he hadn't been sitting back and letting him be destroyed so horribly…if he couldn't have been trying to save him instead.

Childish…but…he'd be lying if he hadn't admitted that the thought had been there, and torturing him inside.

"…I don't understand. I thought the Empire said that they would never admit to anything?" _That's what they said to Lincoln when he first accused them, and Johnson when he demanded they confess. _

"If you would have been here, you would understand much more than that," Grant replied, his tone neither furious nor patronizing – simply stating facts, but even so it made Alfred wince. "Things in Europe are getting worse for Britain and they know it, therefore they're going to need friends and in a little less than ten years after a Civil War we're quickly becoming a valuable friend to have. Politically speaking, keeping us in their corner is a highly strategic move –as of right now they have their newly upgraded Dominions, Portugal, and very few other nations willing to back them. If war breaks out again for them now, things would not be in their favor."

Alfred's head and heart sunk as his eyes closed to hide his anger and anguish. Was it really so easy to just buy forgiveness in this world? Does one not just condone war, but aid in it too and be absolved by paying a sum and releasing some territory? According to how he had been raised it took something far beyond material wealth and political standing to find forgiveness…but then again, the one who had taught him was the very man who put the price tag on the bandages that would supposedly heal the wound left behind by the four years of war he had suffered.

That apparently…he only wanted to heal because it was strategically convenient.

"As for them taking responsibility for the '_Alabama Claims'_," Grant added, breaking Alfred's thoughts, "internationally speaking, they have officially avoided that by agreeing to this deal, and I approved it."

All color seemed to drain from Alfred's face in an instant. His eyes widened and his hands shook as he stared speechlessly at his boss. The man held his gaze firmly as Alfred gained control of himself and was suddenly enraged. His fists clenched and his color returned with a vengeance seconds before he snapped.

"You're going to let him get away with this?" he demanded.

Grant said nothing and remained stoic as Alfred continued to scream.

"After what he did to me? After what he let happen to OUR people? I saw everything, EVERYTHING! I felt, and heard, and smelled, I tasted, and bled everything out there with those men and you're just going to let him walk away? We fired the guns on each other, we lit the bombs and charged the fields, but an enabler should never be seen as innocent and free of consequences. You were there – you were FUCKING there, sir! How the hell could you just let him get away with murder!"

Tears were streaming from sky-blue eyes, now darkened and shinning with deep-seated emotion and pain. His body was shaking again, but it was no longer from the shock of disbelief; it was from years of grief, years pent up anger, and years of uncontrolled horrors all released in a moment of righteous indignation. He was remembering things again – things he had worked so hard not to think about for the years he'd been travelling and trying to move on. He didn't want to think about war and hospital tents any more, he didn't want to think about mass graves or innocent people screaming as their homes burned; he didn't want to think about prison camps or his own prison beneath this very building. He didn't want to think about Fort Sumter, Gettysburg or Shiloh; he didn't want to think about Lincoln's assassination or this continued Restoration period where so many places were still suffering so much.

What he did want to think about was that there would be some justice in all of this.

"The British Empire is as much a '_he_' as the United States of America is '_you_'."

Alfred hadn't realized that he had been no longer staring at his President, but down at his desk, so neatly stacked with mounds of paperwork. The avatar looked up, and hard brown eyes met blue.

"You've been gone for the better part of six years, and still the government has continued to run without you. Have you not considered why? Or perhaps why you were more on those battlefields in your mind when your body was here in Washington all those years during the war?"

Alfred's breaths calmed, but even in his pause he couldn't answer. Not one for waiting, Grant continued.

"I have my theory, Mr. Jones, and I believe you're more a product of the people than you are the government of this land," Grant said, finally coming around his desk without breaking eye contact with Alfred. "I believe your kind are more of a pulse for the people than you are anything else – a kind of jugular of society. While you must someday realize you have as much responsibility in the political world as you do in the public world, you will forever be more connected to the more overwhelming, and mostly irrational, emotions of the latter; and that, Alfred Jones…"

As Grant came to a stop before Alfred, nearly coming nose to nose with the avatar, he leaned in and gave the other a long, hard look.

He may have only been a human…but Alfred was reminded of this human's role and who this human was, what he had done, and that his decisions were the ultimate law here. However much sway Alfred had with his standing…he was reminded of just how inexperienced he was in using it.

He really did know so little.

"...Is why you should remember, when seeking out the greater good for all, one must put one's own personal prejudices aside."

Neither Alfred nor President Grant said another word, and finally, when Alfred appeared to have calmed down, Grant took a clipped stepped back and returned to his desk. He took his seat without returning a look to Alfred, and the avatar lowered his gaze and felt a mixture of shame and solemn understanding. He gave his President one last look before turning to leave when the ceasing of the President's pen stopped him.

"Before you took off, shortly after Johnson was inaugurated, there was a package that had arrived for you when Lincoln was still here. Mrs. Johnson entrusted it to my wife when we moved in and she left it in your room."

Alfred didn't ask the questions circulating in his mind; he simply nodded his head and said a soft thank you before taking his leave…and was glad to finally be free of that room.

* * *

><p>Alfred had had his own room in the White House since its remodeling after its burning in 1814, and thankfully it was as far from the lower floors as he could get. Though rarely used, Alfred found the room in excellent upkeep when he set the key down on the dresser and beheld the wooden crate on the bed. Given that the bed was freshly turned and made, he guessed the housekeepers had been alerted he'd be coming; the box must have just been placed.<p>

Given the day he had had, Alfred wasn't sure he could handle any more surprises; truth be told, he had actually planned to leave on the next train out of town as soon as his meeting with the President was over with, but now it looked like he would have to stay for the night.

It didn't help matters that the sound of rain hitting the windows meant changing his mind was no longer an option, making him sigh and throw his coat over a nearby chair.

That just left him…and the box.

Alfred had always been a curious fellow; war had certainly made him a more cautious one, but he was still curious nonetheless. He took the first note and read the flourished feminine handwriting of the First Lady who had left it there for him, explaining how it had been left in her care from two previous First Ladies and that she conveyed the apologies of the first for not giving it to him when it initially arrived due to his condition during the war. He tossed that paper aside and took up the slightly yellowed paper beneath the twine wrapped around the crate and carefully unfolded it, scanning the contents…

And finding himself slightly…confused.

_Alfred,_

_As the man who gave you the gift of language and bestowed our common tongue on your world, I find myself ashamed to find it so impossible to communicate now. _

Alfred swallowed and found himself wanting to stop, but was unable to help himself from continuing.

_Therefore, for all I cannot bring myself to say, yet all that needs to be said...I am returning to you that which you gave to me at a time when I could not fully appreciate your gift, but do so now. Perhaps in your hour of need you can appreciate this…and see just how much you've grown _–

Swallowing, and with shaking hands, Alfred tore his gaze away from the letter and set it on the bed. With both hands he grabbed the sides of the crate and pried it open, dropping the heavy lid on the floor without a care and digging through the straw packing until he unearthed a strangely familiar blue surface beneath the gold. Grabbing it from inside the box, he pulled it out and unraveled the once carefully folded faded blue coat, and examined the wool article in his hands.

Holding it out in front of him, the memory of entering the snow-covered streets of Yorktown, and then leaving them without it, came to mind.

He blinked and slowly lowered his arms as he remembered the last time he had seen Arthur during the Revolution. Arthur had been the one in the prison cell that night, and when he had seen him he thought he had been slightly out of his mind. It had been freezing beneath the garrison, and Alfred remembered leaving his coat when he felt he could do nothing else to show Arthur that he still cared. He couldn't recall how many times Arthur had told him growing up what a valuable part of him he was…so really, Arthur had lost a part of himself in that war too. The Revolution had lasted for five years…

Alfred sobered at the thought and turned back to the letter on the bed. Holding the coat in one hand, he took the letter and reread it, finally reading the conclusion and signature before setting it down again and turning his full attention to the coat.

The color wasn't as vibrant as it had been that night, but it was still noticeable and clean; the wool was frayed in areas and not as tightly knit, but it was still usable to someone of the right size. The coat would never fit him again, he could tell just by looking at it. He had grown; he was bigger and stronger than he was back then.

It wasn't useless…but it wouldn't do him any good anymore.

Arthur had known that when he sent it to him almost eight years ago, and Alfred wondered how much growing he had done since then. His nation was back together, and for better or worse his people had begun the same process. His government was still trying to reestablish itself, but as Grant had said he seemed more attached to his population than to his heads of state…other than his tie to his President, Alfred had to admit he agreed with him.

Did that mean Arthur was the same way? He couldn't say for sure…

But what he could say for sure was that he still had a long way to go and more time to think about Arthur and what he was before he decided whether he had it in him to put his emotions aside for the greater good…and reading the bottom of Arthur's letter told him that.

– _and forgive me for what I've done._

_Sincerely and Respectfully,_

_Arthur Kirkland_

_**~Fin~**_

* * *

><p><em>Notes from the Author<em>:

Howdy, everyone! I'm sorry it's been forever and a day since I last uploaded something and for that I apologize to high heaven and beyond. It's been a crazy life I've been livin' as of late, and as the semester reaches the halfway point it's only getting nuttier. This request fic has been in my queue for a while now (and again I am SO SORRY FOR THAT) so I really wanted to get that done for my reader who requested it. :) I wish you had left a name, darlin', but for now, this one's for you – **Anonymous**!

Challenge/Request: -_Something with Arthur and his government during the American Civil War, using the CSS Alabama as it was still something of a bone of contention between Alfred and Arthur_-

ON WITH THE NOTES! There's a TON of history in this one!

-The _CSS Alabama _(1862-1864) was one of, if not the most controversial ship to have ever sailed in the American Civil War. She was commissioned by the Confederate States of America, by a man I'll get to in a second, on behalf of President Jefferson Davis to the John Laird Sons and Company shipbuilders of Great Britain. The ship was built in absolute secrecy on an island off the coast of Portugal in neutral waters, but made frequent trips to Britain and France to resupply often. Though the government of Great Britain never officially claimed knowledge of her or her sister ships' existence when they were built or launched, an inquiry after the fact known as the "Alabama Claims" (1872) brought out that both Prime Minister Palmerston and the Foreign Secretary, Lord Russell not only knew of the ships…but knew they should have never been allowed commission. The end result of the heated debate between the Northern Union (the Confederate South in 1865) and Great Britain was to quietly sweep the Empire's involvement under the table and restitution in the sum of $15.5 million paid for the damages done. However, in paying this amount, forcing Canada to open certain disputed fishing grounds to American use (though I encourage you guys to read a little more into how Canada still managed to come out on top there, :) well done, Canada), and sharing more of the Great Lakes, Great Britain managed to "officially" avoid any involvement in America's Civil War as far as the books go. Though the matter still ended up in MY American History book in school, they avoided internationally acclaimed involvement. But on the flip side, this incident did strengthen U.S/U.K./Canadian relations in some…really weird way. It's kinda complicated. XD I encourage you guys to research it more.

**~~**MINDBLOWING HISTORICAL NOTE**~~**

-Now, it's not too often I come across something in American history that makes me go "O_O OMGWTFBBQIHADNOIDEA" but THIS was definitely one of those moments. In getting my source notes for this fic, I discovered that during the negotiations for the "Alabama Claims" a Senator of ours was actually trying to ask for upwards of $2 billion (which was jaw droppingly ridiculous in those days) or the annexation of Canada. _ I. Had. No. Idea. This proposal apparently gained some support and was brought before the British subcommittee handling the go-between with America and Britain…and let's just say they were trying to pick up their jaws like I was. Needless to say neither deal happened, both because Britain was outraged over such an idea and most Americans (the President included) were less than enthusiastic with such a dunderheaded suggestion. So, I say this now with all humility: to all my Canadian readers and to my Canadian Consultant especially, I am SO sorry for being so bewildered about and not taking your fears over our Manifest Destiny seriously. T_T You have my sincerest apologies.

…On a brighter note, the Treaty of Washington was the FIRST time the United States ever recognized Canada as a dominion and not a colony of the British Empire. :) Plus!

-The "Southern Gentleman" here is none other than James Dunwody Bulloch. If you don't recognize the name I shan't flog you, so don't worry :). During the American Civil War, James Bulloch was pretty much the Confederacy's foreign ambassador/naval liaison to Great Britain. His main goal was to build up a navy for the South to help them rival the North's naval superiority (which aided in the North's economic and militaristic advantages). So to do this, he played on Great Britain's love of two things: their predisposition to America's South in the conflict, and the foreign love of American cotton. Bulloch's plan was to pretty much build his fleet of the few reserves of Southern gold and mass amounts of Southern cotton, and the result was quite a few ships, crews, but most notably the _CSS Alabama_. Bulloch was described as an extremely proud Southerner, a savvy businessman, and a successful privateer. After the Civil War ended he and his other family members who served the South were not granted amnesty and chose to live between Canada and England. Just so ya know, the Bullochs have blood that stretch from suspected coconspirators in the Lincoln assassination (Lincoln was President of the Northern Union during the war), to James Bulloch being the uncle of Theodore Roosevelt, the 26th President of the United States of America. History is just wild like that, no?

-CHARACTER INTRODUCTION! I'd like you all to meet Emrys/Cymru/Alban/Wales! ^_^ He's a darling fellow, really, and I hope you all like this first round meeting with him. I've actually been challenged by my Beta editor to work on my head-canon history of Arthur as she is working on her head-canon of Antonio (Spain); and as you all have probably guessed by now, I love a good challenge. Though making OCs scares the living you-know-what out of me, I'm going to give it a shot and hope for the best. I am by no means an expert speaker of the Welsh or Celtic languages, nor do I know any (IF YOU ARE ONE, PLEASE DROP ME A LINE!) so I will not attempt to use any long phrases in Emrys's native tongue…I'd likely screw it up ROYALLY. However, the few words I did uses go as follows:

-_ Lloegr_ – The ancient Welsh name for England/the realm of King Arthur ( :) I thought it'd be a cool "modern" nickname Emrys would give Arthur)

-_ brawd_ – Means "brother"

- Emrys – An older Welsh name that means "Immortal"

I know I've probably missed some notes, so please if you have any questions please feel free to drop me a line. :) Thank you so much to everyone who has been continuing to follow me and read my stories in my absence, I still love hearing from you all and I owe so many of your replies to all of your wonderful reviews and comments and I cannot thank you enough for your patience; you all truly humble me beyond words. THANK YOU ALL SO MUCH AGAIN 3 3 3 ! As of right now I have to he up in 3 hours and I need some sleep. XD I hope you all have enjoyed this update, and **Anonymous**, I hope you've enjoyed your fic! Until next time, darlin's!

Sincerely,

_General Kitty Girl_


	4. Ma liberaci dal Male, Amen

**WARNING: This fic is rated "M" for language, violence, and character death. Please read with care.** **~Ma liberaci dal Male...Amen~** _(Italy Brothers & UK)_

House of peace. House of salvation. House of God.

Nothing remained of it now but ashes and broken stone.

Brilliant mosaic floors were dulled and fragmented; what few walls remained gaped like toothless corpses propped up by pillars refusing to bow beneath their burdens. Where had once been delicate stained glass windows were now empty sockets removed of the rose-colored lenses of faith from the town of _Reggio di Calabria_.

Beyond the rows of debris-covered pews and broken arches knelt a huddled mass beneath the shadow of the fractured alter. Upon the ornate crimson rug meant for the feet of holy men, wept the nation from which the birthplace of Roman Catholicism began.

He held his arms tightly as his frame wracked with sobs, his head hanging low as his honey-colored eyes stared transfixed on the floor. Tears poured down his face like the endless waters of the _Trevi_ in Rome, making his sun-favored skin look as slick and ashen as the marble of Oceanus's face. His fingers were white with strain from digging into his cobalt uniform, a uniform he had once worn with such pride and now wanted nothing more than to be free of. Since donning it, nothing but misery and pain had befallen him and his people; something that was suppose to bring the country glory and strengthen its ties to its allies was now plunging it and all of its citizens into darkness and bloodshed. His beloved country, his grandfather's legacy, had finally been unified and was now completely falling apart…and he felt solely responsible.

Because he had been trying to cleanse too many sins with so many more.

"Forgive me. Forgive me. Forgive me…" He whispered over and over again between breaths, trying to find comfort in a house in which he had always felt welcome, but now felt nothing but emptiness and shame.

"Stop it, Veneziano, no one is listening."

The Italian continued to beg and cry as though he had never heard the voice behind him, coming from the man slouched on one of the front pews and staring ahead with a blank expression. The man had a darker complexion than his companion who was currently abasing himself, with browner hair and deeper eyes that had nearly lost all trace of shine in their vacancy. Though the man on the floor was consumed by the woes of the present, it was clear the other was far away and beyond anything happening in the desecrated halls of the cathedral.

Or outside…making its way into the city from the beach.

The blue-clad Italian snuffled loudly and swallowed, trying to find his voice after it had became hoarse from his lamenting. "I thought…I believed we were doing the right thing. Everyone – …everyone thought we were traitors after the last war, I wanted…I wanted to prove – "

"Throwing our lot in with the Potato Bastard only proved that we were greater fools for not learning our lesson the first time," the seated Italian cut in, still mentally removed from the situation even as his harsh words made the other wince. "But I suppose that's what happens when some prick from _Predappio_ decides he's in charge…" He continued, then added under his breath, "He deserves more than his fair share of the blame…"

Another sob choked the fairer Italian as he constricted his grip on his arms, nearly to the point of bruising while his body curled tighter against his form. The man behind him paid him neither comment nor glance while he cried, and simply left the other to his thoughts.

The northern brother knew he wasn't evil; he also knew his country wasn't either. At the same time, he believed the same of his friend Ludwig and the German people. Their leaders were corrupt, the Italian could see that more clearly now than ever, but that didn't mean the cores of the nations they led were putrid with the same taint. There were people here in Italy and in Germany fighting against the corruption, against the atrocities of the war and striving for the peace the avatar wanted more than anything. There were even more people who were separated from it all and just trying to live their lives as best they could, to continue everyday life in hopes that someday soon the darkness would lift from the world. Those people, all of those people were good, and even the many soldiers he had met who tried to balance doing the right thing with the orders they were given…He felt the worst for them; for the good people wearing uniforms would forever be made one in the same with the wicked among them. If he could spare all of those good people, his country and his allies, he would; no sacrifice would be too great…but all the possibilities terrified him.

Finally the honey-eyed lad raised his head and spoke again, "What…what's going to happen t-to us, _fratello_?"

A shudder ran through the other's body, but he tried not to show it as he spoke. "You know what's going to happen, Veneziano, we're going to be punished…because it's easier to punish our people and our leaders through us."

It was then that Feliciano Vargas's heart truly sank lower than his groveling form ever could. His people were going to suffer more because he had been incapable of stopping Mussolini's rise to power, because his voice had been too small when protesting military campaigns he knew were fruitless, and because keeping his alliance with Germany meant more to him than seeing the commitment for what it really was…who and what he and Ludwig had really been committing to.

That he, Romano, and his people would be precursors to his allies' and their people's fates made his very soul hemorrhage with grief.

"…People…so many people who had nothing to do with this, they are innocent," Feliciano managed between his quieter tears. "…Is there no way to spare them?"

"That's not up to us," Romano replied in a deadpan voice. "We can't decide how retribution is dealt."

Honey-brown eyes widened and suddenly a small spark of hope returned. Feliciano raised his head and turned on his knees towards his brother, his face conveying the desperation he felt as he grasped at the prospect of there being a chance. "Can we not convince them, you and I? Can we not argue the case for our people and just take the punishment ourselves without hurting them? …Romano…" He trailed off, his eyes watering again as he looked at his brother in shame. "I was the one who pushed so much for our alliance with Germany…i-it's my fault so much has gone wrong…You don't deserve to be punished too."

The shift in the other's demeanor was sudden, and instantly his eyes snapped back into focus before narrowing on his brother. His body shook with building anger as emotions he'd been trying to hide were brought violently to the surface.

"How dare you invalidate me like that! We're unified and I have had just as much say in matters as you've had," he retorted, his complexion reddening slightly. "Don't think I couldn't have decked your ass and spoken against you at any time – because I could have; that I didn't is something I'll have to live with, but I'm not going to run away and leave the world thinking that I made no decisions and left our country's fate to a brat like you!"

Feliciano stared back at his brother in silent surprise and awe as burning tears began to roll down Romano's cheeks. The Southern Italian could barely control the trembling of his body as his hold on his knees tightened until his knuckles became white.

"I exist, Goddamn it! I'm going to take the responsibility of that, and I won't let you steal it from me."

"…_Fratello_…"

Romano violently turned his head away from his brother, refusing to meet that face any longer lest he lose what little reserve he had left. He clamped his jaw tightly shut to prevent the sob desperate to escape; his sharp and rapid breathing caused his nose to run, making him roughly use his sleeve to wipe as much shame from his face as possible. He silently berated himself for his state. Feliciano was allowed to cry, he had always been the more emotional of them, but Romano had always fancied himself to be the stronger, tougher brother…after all, he had been through so much more than Feliciano, facing much of it alone.

It was unfair how forgotten he was, how little his presence mattered beyond counting him as property or just another section of his favored brother's country. He had survived invaders, civil war, being passed around from one ruler to the next and still he had fought every day to live and be recognized. Many attributed his stubbornness and pride to the characteristics of his people, but Romano wanted them to just be attributes of him. He wanted to own more than just scars, he wanted a voice.

And he'd be damned before he let Feliciano take that from him...regardless of the fear that gripped him at the thought of what that meant.

He hadn't noticed when his fairer brother approached him; he was completely oblivious to the other's presence until a pair of arms wrapped about his shaking form and embraced him. Romano tensed and wanted to push Feliciano away, but he couldn't find the will to unlock his muscles to follow through. Instead, his head fell onto his brother's shoulder and he found himself unable to hold back any longer…and openly cried.

His arms finally moved, but now they were to cling his brother back.

The Northern Italian said nothing as Romano cried and loudly sobbed, his tears soaking the other's blue uniform until it was nearly black. He paid it no mind as he remained kneeling before his other half and allowed his brother whatever comfort he could. He had had no idea Romano felt this way and harbored such feelings of resentment…In that moment he felt that he had failed more as a brother than as the avatar of his country.

"…I'm sorry, _fratello_…I'm so sorry."

Romano's expression contorted with irritation as he squeezed the other tighter in frustration. "S-stop apologizing, y-you useless brat," he growled between sobs and his tightened jaw. "W-we made our choices, now it's time to d-deal with the fallout. They'll come for us, _both of us,_ but we're not running away – not this time."

Feliciano closed his eyes and rested his forehead on his brother's shoulder, "…You'll stay with me, Romano?"

Silence stretched between the pair for a long while, but slowly Romano's breaths calmed and the intensity of his hold on his brother relaxed. His face still buried against the other's he finally managed, "I'll be here, _fratellino_…someone has to make sure you don't embarrass us with all your damn crying."

For the first time in what felt like years, Feliciano smiled and hugged his brother tighter. "_Grazie_, _fratello_…_grazie_."

Later that night, the sound of boot-steps over the rubble made Feliciano's hand on his brother's tighten – the other returning the gesture even though he was shaking with fear. By the time the footsteps stopped both brothers were trembling and their hands were sealed together with sweat. The sound of a round being chambered only made their perspiration worse.

"On your knees."

The brothers stood side by side at the base of the steps leading to the altar, neither of them able to turn around and face the man with the gun, as they remained frozen in silence.

The hammer of the gun clicked and the sound of an arm in stiff military issued material rising made Feliciano whimper as Romano squeezed his eyes shut. "I said, on your knees."

The fairer Italian swallowed and felt his eyes burning with tears again. "…C-can you promise…more innocent people won't be hurt by this?"

Without a word the figure stepped forward and connected a boot with the back of the Italian's knees, making him cry out as he lost his grip on his brother and fell forward. Romano's face twisted with rage as he spun on heel with a fist raised, but only met air before the butt of the pistol slammed into the side of his head. With Feliciano on his knees and Romano on his back, one hand to his bleeding temple, a shadow fell over the brothers, with the firearm level once more.

"Don't try to tell me that you suddenly care about innocents," came the accented voice of the man with the gun as the anger thickened in his voice. "You didn't care about innocents during the invasion of France or the Blitz, but now that the enemy is at your doorstep you suddenly feel remorse; convenient reconnections with your conscience won't spare you."

When he could open his eyes past the pain, Romano glared up at the man above him while Feliciano was struggling to push himself up. The fairer Italian's heart hurt far worse than his body, but he managed to get to his knees facing the altar.

He couldn't give up.

"…We cared…we have always cared," he began, trying to gain strength in his sincerity. "But we follow orders just like you and everyone else; regardless of how we feel, it's not we who dictate the course our leaders choose for us…but it's we who have to live with the consequences for eternity."

Venomous green eyes narrowed, but his attention was turned to the other Italian now sitting up and wiping the blood from his face. "You've already taken Sicily and bombed Rome; our armies have all but collapsed and our societies are in a state of chaos. You've already pressured the king into ousting Mussolini, and Germany is already preparing to invade once their fears of our surrender are confirmed," he growled, then shouted in his frustration, "What more do you want, you tea-drinking bastard?"

Arthur Kirkland said nothing for a time and locked a cold stare with the older of the two brothers. "Tomorrow the armistice between the Allies and the Kingdom of Italy will be signed, and by then it will be too late to deal the greatest blow to Germany and those in your country who still side with the Axis," he began, both his words and his tone enough to reverberate inside both of the brothers. "I'll do all it takes to remove any obstacles between me and Germany."

Feliciano slowly turned his head to see his executioner for the first time, and his blood ran like ice water beholding the sight of what remained of the British Empire standing behind him.

Arthur's skin looked ashen and grey, his once vivid emerald-green eyes were lusterless above dark circles that provided the only color to his face. He looked gaunter, his uniform seemed larger than his frame and his once metaphysically intimidating presence had dimmed substantially. Arthur Kirkland looked like he was dying…slowly and painfully he was becoming a shadow of what he once was…Even so, his arm extending the gun never wavered and his face never reflected the pain he was clearly suffering.

Feliciano felt such sadness welling within him…Arthur looked much like Grandpa Rome in his final days.

"You're both old enough to know how this works," Arthur said in a more even tone, his expression never changing. "Stay where you are if you want to see it, otherwise turn around."

Feliciano cast his eyes down before looking at Romano, who refused to look away from Arthur. Romano's expression was set with determination, but his eyes couldn't hide the terrible fear inside. Both brothers had experienced death before, but in their country's vulnerable state neither of them knew how terribly their deaths would affect it. When they died so many more died with them, and their population had so little to spare. Once the armistice was signed the fate of that very population would lay within the powers their executioner represented. If the kingdom and societies fell, and their country never recovered, neither would they.

Feliciano would never get to tell Ludwig how sorry he was for never being a strong enough ally…or friend, and that for some reason hurt him to the core of his soul.

"…_Padre Nostro che sei nei cieli, sia santificato il tuo Nome_…"

Both Arthur and Romano looked at the Northern Italian, the young man having turned back towards the altar, with his head bowed as he sat kneeling on the floor. The Englishman seemed suspended in time as the prayer continued to flow unhurried and softly from Feliciano's lips. The familiar unsung melody behind each rise and fall of his voice and each pause registered immediately with every fiber of Christianity threaded into Arthur's being. He didn't have to understand Italian to know what Feliciano was saying.

While the younger Italian shed no more tears, Romano's eyes filled with them as he turned and protectively embraced his brother from behind.

He was still echoing his brother's words through his sobs as Arthur aimed the gun at the back of his head…and fired.

**~Fin~**

_Notes from the Author_:

…To start, I think this is the ANGSTIEST thing I have ever written. This short had a previous version written about two months ago, but was scrapped mainly because of the overwhelming angst. However, at the insistence of **Acqua-Toffana **and **Dagger 'Majime' Leonelli**, I decided to restart the piece and finally finish it for good.

So, to those two who requested this be salvaged from the scrap pile – this one's for you~

NOTES:

**-**_ Reggio di Calabria _is a city in the southern tip of Italy that took heavy damage from air raids by Allied forces during the invasion of Italy; it was also where Allied forces (led by the British) came ashore after the successful capture of Sicily. An armistice was signed September 3rd, 1943, which officially separated Italy from the Axis alliance and stopped the continued air raids on South Italy. The cathedral described here is the actual grand cathedral in _Reggio di Calabria_, and the damage it sustained took years of rebuilding post-war to repair.

- The _Trevi _fountain in Rome is one of the most famous fountains in the world. It's a piece that includes Oceanus, Greek titan of oceans and rivers, on his chariot, and is the largest fountain in the entire city of Rome. It's rather beautiful and I highly encourage takin' a gander at it sometime. :)

- During WWII, Italy was a unified empire and known as the Kingdom of Italy. Yes, folks, Romano and Feliciano were TECHNICALLY one during this time period XD. Anywho~ Italy was in the imperial race like most of Europe, and as we all know Italy sided with the Axis during the war. However, what a lot of people I come across don't know is that Italy fought for the Allies in WWI after breaking their pact with Germany, and while they began WWII on the Axis side they ended on the Allies after the incident described in the short. By this time the Grand Council of Fascism, and finally the king of Italy had ousted Mussolini after a multitude of military losses, economic woes, and finally the loss of Sicily and bombing of Rome. The king and his new advisors held the appearance of a continued alliance with the Axis until the armistice was signed with the Allies, marking the surrender of the country's army and the Kingdom of Italy joining the Allies. This did NOT sit well with the Germans as open access to Italy would mean an easier time for the Allies getting further penetration into Europe…specifically Germany. Italy would remain a battlefield with the Allies pushing up from the south and the Germans battling to keep the north until the end of the war. Needless to say…Italy did not fair well during or directly after WWII.

- The "Blitz" (which means "lightning" in German) was the term given to reference the aerial attacks made on Britain during WWII. The Germans, in the hopes that it would pressure the British into surrender by weakening their moral and destroying key military targets to hurt their war-economy, bombed London and many other areas of the country relentlessly. If you've read my previous works describing what my head-canon is for avatars suffering invasion and/or heavy damage to their hearts/capitals, then you can imagine why Arthur looks the way he does and why he's so dead-set on repaying the Axis for all the damage caused.

**ADDED HISTORICAL NOTE**

-During WWII in 1942, Hitler issued an order called the "Commando Order". Leaving out the more gruesome details, the directive basically ordered all Allied commandos in uniform, resisting or surrendering, should be automatically killed. However if the commando is a pilot or not in uniform/bearing his nation's emblem, then he was to be handed over to the German Secret Service (the Gestapo, who were known for torturing and using inhumane methods of interrogation on prisoners of war). This was a HUGE no-no and broke more international laws than I could detail here, and considering most commandos who fell victim to this order were British…again, it's not hard to see why Arthur would be so angry, especially when Italy was a willing follower of this order.

-Quick note: in Shakespeare's _Hamlet_, Prince Hamlet's first attempt to assassinate his murderous uncle failed because his uncle had been praying at the time of Hamlet's intended execution. It was a belief that if someone died/was killed whilst praying they would go straight to heaven…Hamlet, as you can imagine, didn't want his uncle to go to heaven, but as Arthur here did take Feliciano and Romano's lives while they prayed…well, you do the math. ;)

Translations:

- _Reggio di Calabria _= The city where the Allies first made landfall in the "boot of Italy"  
>- <em>Predappio<em> = The city where Mussolini, Prime Minister/Dictator of Italy, was born

-_ Trevi_ = Famous fountain of Oceanus in Rome

- _Fratello_/_fratellino_ = Big brother/little brother

- _Grazie_ = Thank you

- _Padre Nostro che sei nei cieli, sia santificato il tuo Nome_ […] = The opening stanza of "The Lord's Prayer" – "Our Father, who art in Heaven, hallowed be Thy name…"

Whew…okay, well that's all for this fic! I really hope I'm not flamed too terribly for this, and I hope the love many have for my Arthur does not diminish for his actions. To all my readers, subscribers, and reviewers: THANK YOU SO MUCH FOR ALL OF YOUR CONTINUED SUPPORT! T_T You are all so amazing and I cannot express enough how much I appreciate you all, and I cannot thank you enough.

HOPEFULLY I'LL BE PRODUCING MORE WORKS SOON!

Sincerely,

_General Kitty Girl_


	5. Blessed

**~Blessed~**

"Dad, is magic real?"

Sitting beneath the swaying canopy of the flourishing elm, watching the sunlight dance across the ancient labor of a scribe long since passed, worlds away from home and somehow at peace…it was hard not to believe in it.

"Yes," the Englishman simply replied, and carefully turned the page of the book in his lap.

Alfred gave an exasperated sigh and placed his hand in the center of the text, prompting his caregiver to look up. "I mean…in more than just the stories you tell me. I want to see real magic…why can't I?"

Arthur remained silent and still, almost transfixed, for a time. The summer breeze drifted in over the lake, soothing invisible hands through the grass and branches of the tree. Alfred continued to watch his mentor's strangely vacant expression with intense curiosity, but soon became distracted by the leaves falling around them.

The boy looked up in wonderment, removing his hand from the book to reach up and catch some of the vibrant green wind-dancers, but they always seemed to flutter just out of reach. One slipped right through his fingers and settled onto the page his hand had just vacated, but looking down…he saw that Arthur never seemed to notice.

Suddenly, the wind-dancers didn't seem as important anymore. "Dad…?"

"Magic is everywhere, Alfred," the Englishman finally spoke, sounding strangely detached – almost wistful. "Even if you can't see or understand it…it's always there."

Alfred gave an owlish blink and tilted his head. Ignoring the state of his once-new clothes, the boy flopped down beside his mentor and gave the man his utmost attention. "But how do you know?"

Arthur seemed to smile at that and leaned back against the trunk of the tree, carefully closing the book in his lap before resting his gaze on his ward once more. "If you'll suffer me for one more story, I shall help you know for yourself."

Alfred's eyes grew wide and he nodded feverishly, tucking his knees beneath himself as he drew close to Arthur's side, bubbling with anticipation.

"Once there was a king, a giant, who ruled over a kingdom in Wales," he began, his voice falling into the natural storyteller's rhythm he used only with his beloved Alfred. "And he gave his sister's hand in marriage to a king in Ireland in the hopes that it might solidify an alliance."

"Did they love each other?" Alfred interrupted, still watching his mentor aptly. "The Irish king and the Welsh-lady?"

Arthur quirked a humorless smile and shrugged, "I do not know, lad. One would hope for it in the ideal situation, but sadly this situation was far from ideal."

"Oh," Alfred said, wilting a bit, but unwilling to stop listening to the story. "So what happened next?"

Arthur sighed and lowered his gaze. "A great slight was made against the Irish king by the Welsh king's brother, and it angered more than just the king…but all of the people of Ireland. The wise Welsh king sought peace by giving the western sovereign a magical cauldron as recompense; and while it pacified him, his people were still angry. Several close to the Irish king drove him to reflect the rage of his people and he began mistreating his new queen. She was banished from the courts and practically lowered to the status of a slave," he continued, his eyes becoming distant again and an air of great sadness seemed to cloud around him.

The child beside him echoed an expression of great distress, and gnawed on his lower lip before being unable to take the silence any longer. "S-so…someone comes to rescue her, right? Like one of the great knights of Camelot? …What was so magical about the caldron, anyway?"

Arthur seemed to come back to himself then and looked down at the boy, giving him a small smile. He knew how much Alfred loved stories of the great King Arthur and his knights – he never seemed able to get enough of harrowing tales and heroic deeds. He placed a hand behind Alfred's head and gently ruffled his hair, easily dispelling his ward's damper expression and making him smile.

"This was years before King Arthur was even born, lad. We'll get to the caldron in a minute, but don't fret about the queen, because someone did come to her rescue."

That really lit up the boy's face, and he excitedly urged his mentor to continue, "Yes, who?"

"During her exile from the court, the queen raised a starling and sent it home with a plea to her brothers for help; and soon the distraught brothers sailed with an army to the lands north to rescue their beloved sibling," Arthur replied, finding Alfred's enthusiasm terribly infectious and making it harder to keep his composure.

"Wow, they make ships big enough for giants?" Alfred exclaimed, marveling at whatever image he had conjured in his mind. "Dad, it would be a ship bigger than yours!"

"Oh, yes, I suppose it would be…" Arthur said, feigning serious contemplation before giving Alfred a mischievous smirk. "It's a shame a ship greater than mine did not exist back then. The king was so big he could not fit on any ship, but simply walked before the ships of his army and parted the rough tides for them; it made for making excellent timing, actually."

The elation on Alfred's expression was something the former privateer cherished more than all of the gold in His Majesty's coffers. The boy was beside himself with how fantastically his imagination was racing. It was little surprise when Alfred leaned in close, nearly nose to nose with his elder, and began babbling excitedly.

"I'll bet that Irish king was terrified when he looked to the sea and saw a giant like that! I'll bet he stopped being terrible to the queen and – "

"I thought you were supposed to be suffering me telling the story, Alfred?"

The child snapped his jaw shut and covered his mouth with a hand, looking sheepish, though not the least bit sorry, and giggled as he plopped back down on the ground and hugged his knees. Arthur raised a bushy eyebrow that said he wasn't buying the angelic act, but continued reciting the tale anyway.

"The Irish king was indeed distressed by the sight of such a large force approaching his shores. So to appease the Welsh king, the Irish king offered a truce and had a house built large enough to hold the mighty giant and his army, to host as guests rather than enemies. However, his armistice was false," he continued, lowering his voice and leaning towards Alfred, as if sharing a secret. "Within this house hung large bags from the rafters, all disguising a number of soldiers ready to slay the eastern king and his men whilst they slept."

Alfred's eyes widened and he withdrew his hand, looking both startled and affronted, but quickly stifled his protest and replaced his hand at Arthur's silent look of warning.

"Relax, Alfred. The giant-king was no fool and discovered the plot and foiled it in time, but it started a great battle between his men and the Irish king's," he went on, sitting back as he looked out over the lake again. "It was a fierce battle, with a great number of casualties on both sides. The awfulness of it all was only made worse by the Irish king's use of the magic caldron, given to him by the Welsh king long before. You see, Alfred…when the dead are placed in this caldron, they return to life; and so the Irish king's forces became endless."

Unable to keep his silence any longer, Alfred lowered his hand again and looked disconcertedly at his mentor. He seemed unable to wrap his head around such a concept, and began voicing his thoughts, "But that…that's not the kind of magic – I thought only God could return the dead to life?"

Arthur fell silent and his expression became stoic, if even showing a slight inclination towards sadness…or nostalgia. "Back then, people in those lands did not know the same God you know now. In those days, people believed more in the powers of the land than even the deities of their clans. Nature was the ultimate giver of life, and those who could manipulate it were revered, sometimes even mistaken for gods," he explained at length, trying to formulate words that a child, even one as clever as Alfred, might understand. "Objects can be mistaken in that respect too, and with the caldron it could indeed restore life…but not as it was. Those reborn of the caldron were nothing more than soulless puppets, able to fight and nothing else. With no will, and no ability to think or feel anything…would you consider that true life, Alfred?"

The boy considered this for a long while, tapping his fingers against his chin and looking between his mentor and the ground. He looked as though he was being tested on his response, but Arthur was less concerned about the boy having the right answer than having his _own_ answer.

For the few decades Alfred had been in his care, Arthur had come to expect childish, yet strangely wise responses from the boy. Alfred was always so eager to learn, questioning everything practical and believing in everything fantastical. He was a dreamer; a rare quality in one of their kind, and however endearing Arthur found it he knew he would have to guide the child towards more rational ways of thinking as he grew. However much he loved sharing tales of old with the lad, however much he loved seeing his face light up when he spoke of glorified days gone by…it wasn't practical.

Arthur knew Alfred had finally come up with his answer when he began chewing on his bottom lip again, and looked up at him with slightly apprehensive eyes. "So…if people don't know God…um…the God I know…then they can't get His blessings…so they get blessings from nature, and that's what we call…magic?"

The Englishman kept his patient expression and gestured for the boy to continue, which Alfred took encouragingly and appeared more confident as he carried on.

"But coming back to life like that, that's not a blessing at all…it's more like a curse, I think," he said, crossing his arms and trying to mimic a studious pose he'd seen his mentor do countless times. "So that means that magic is less superior to God's blessings, and must be why people believe in God now, right?"

The lad seemed so proud of his deduction and was positively glowing, but Arthur gave no reaction beyond a thoughtful sound before turning back out towards the lake. Alfred seemed a bit crestfallen at the lack of praise, and crawled closer to Arthur and sat leaning against him. The nudge brought his caregiver's attention back to him, as the boy looked up at him with unsure eyes."…Did I say something wrong?"

Arthur shook his head and placed an arm around Alfred's shoulder, drawing him in closer as Alfred returned to hugging his knees. "Perhaps I should finish the story, hmm?"

Still worried he had given the wrong answer, Alfred silently nodded and let Arthur continued uninterrupted.

"To stop the continuous flow of caldron-born warriors, the brother who had initially slighted the Irish king broke the caldron's spell by willingly throwing his own living body into it. The caldron shattered; those who had been reborn of it all fell in one great passing. By the battle's end, all but seven of the giant-king's men had perished…even the giant-king, himself. The queen fell into terrible grief at the loss of her brothers and soon joined them in death of a broken heart." Arthur stopped when he felt a shudder run through Alfred's body, and looking down at him he saw his sky-blue eyes shining with tears he was desperately trying to fight. The Englishman sighed and held Alfred a little tighter, moving his hand to the lad's elbow to give him a reassuring squeeze. "The king had only one final request: that some part of him be returned to the heart of the nation under his care, so that he might continue to watch over it after death. The journey back was very long, but the loyal survivors fulfilled their king's last request and buried his head on the 'White Mound', ever looking south towards the continent to deter enemies of his land from ever invading in his absence."

Quickly rubbing his face with the back of his hand, Alfred looked up at Arthur. "But death is…final. How could he look after anything if he's dead?"

"How will King Arthur ever keep his promise to return when England needs him most, if he died on the fields of the Battle of Camlann?"

Alfred blinked and seemed stunned for a moment…and only then realized that he had never questioned the validity of King Arthur's ancient promise. He seemed thunderstruck for a moment, and Arthur smiled as he took mercy upon him.

"Today, upon 'White Mound' now sits the Tower of London…and another king many years after the death of his giant ancestor unearthed and discarded the head beneath the Tower, to prove he could protect all the land without reliance upon ancient magic," Arthur continued. "The very same king who later made a promise based on the same ancient magic that legend says he sought to dispel…"

Alfred's eyes went wide and he gaped up at his mentor. "King Arthur?"

The Englishman set his book aside and with his free hand, gestured to the landscape around them. "The giant-king's ancient magic is based in his love for his land, his people and his want to protect them. That kind of magic does not fade with time or the desecration of a tomb; and that is why the ravens, the Welsh king's symbols and namesakes, sit upon the Tower to this very day. They are his lingering spirit and proof of his promise. It is when those ravens leave, lad, that we should worry; because that day will mean that magic based out of love and granted by nature, has failed. King Arthur's promise is much the same, don't you agree?"

Alfred looked terribly torn. He seemed to be wrestling with a great inner conflict and Arthur knew it was between accepting his present reality and such an abstract one. Alfred looked like a child now, but he was well older than most of the men governing his lands. His mannerisms reflected his appearance, but his mind was forever struggling between youth and maturity. Such a concept, like magic, was something his youthful side embraced but his slowly growing adult self struggled with.

He was trying to label the intangible, and Arthur reached down for the boy's hand and placed it palm up, and side by side with his own. The lad looked at him curiously before Arthur placed a fallen leaf in each of their palms.

"Magic, as it were, is just nature's blessing, correct? Here you have two examples of how those blessings can be used to cause great sorrow, or to inspire hope," he said, and slowly closed his hand over his leaf; his fist now becoming the size of Alfred's splayed hand. "Can men of faith not also misuse the blessings of God, such as the life He gives or the causes men take up in His name?" Arthur purposed, still keeping his fist closed and his tone gentle. "Back to your original idea…I wonder if you still truly believe magic is inferior and no longer believed in, because those who misused it did so in poor imitation of God?"

The lad considered this, looking between his hand and Arthur, and slumped as his expression soured with frustration. He began rubbing his eyes again – though tears were no longer an issue. "No…I think no one believes in magic anymore because it's just…not around. No one can see it and maybe there's no one left who can use it anymore," he finally admitted, before suddenly dropping his hand.

The abrupt movement caused his leaf to catch on the wind and flutter away. He initially started, but soon returned to his melancholy before a second leaf flew by, and he looked beside him to see Arthur's hand open again…and empty.

The Englishman never said a word, and after their eyes met for a time the boy relaxed back against his elder's side and sighed. "I guess…the belief in magic and blessings…is all kinda based on faith. Without it…neither one of them is much of anything, are they?"

For the first time since escaping the chaos of the colonial capital and bringing Alfred to their favorite spot in nearly all Virginia, Arthur smiled a genuine smile and clasped Alfred's arm tightly in affection. The pride he felt in Alfred was indescribable…nearly as great as the relief.

There had been a time when the chasm in his heart had grown so greatly, widened only by the years of being forced from one belief to another, being forced to worship one god to the next, that he had given up on his faith in anything; and loosing his magic…Some figures and pleasures in his life had helped to fill that hollowness within him, but these days having Alfred made that void a more distant memory.

He had faith in Alfred, in his unconditional love and acceptance, and found himself more content with that than he ever thought possible.

Alfred was his new magic, and his greatest blessing.

The boy at his side stirred, and without any more prompting than a nudge to the elder's hand to clear it from before him, Alfred took a seat upon his mentor's lap and made himself comfortable with his back against the Englishman's chest. The child then grabbed the forgotten book beside the man and held it up, tilting his head back to look up at Arthur behind him.

"I know it's getting late, but one more story please, dad?"

Arthur smiled again and chuckled, taking the book from Alfred's hands as he held it before them both and opened the realms of old once more.

**~Fin~**

* * *

><p><em>Notes from the Author:<em>

This piece is written for and in dedication to my friend, **Zombie4Pie**. She had requested a "Papa Iggy" fic of me and I hope this piece is satisfactory. :) I wish her a very happy birthday and hope this brightens her days; I know she's needed it.

To the notes!

-The time period on this piece in the early decades of the turn of the 18th century, and before the French – Indian War (a.k.a. The Seven Years War, North American Theater). Alfred would appear to be about the same age he was in "Home of My Smile" (about 6 – 7, or so). :)

-The tale Arthur is reciting here is the tale of Brân the Blessed…the, uh, Welsh version (sorry, that's the one I learned in my Pre & Post Medieval Literature Class oTZ). The legend itself is pretty cool, but some of the things Arthur omitted here were: the initial slight to the Irish king was that Brân's brother slayed all of the Irish horses, the Irish king and Brân's sister had a son together, that said horse-slaying brother killed by throwing into a fire (yikes), and when Brân's head was cut off to be returned to London…o_o it was still talking, singing, and carrying on like any jolly 'ol magical severed giant head would. It took little more than 40 years (if memory serves me right) for Brân's men to finally get to 'White Mound' and bury their king's head, mainly due to the fact that they somehow ended up obliviously trapped in a kind of time warped realm where all they did was have a good time being entertained by their king's severed head. X'D Oh, I do so LOVE mythology~ The bit about King Arthur removing the head from beneath the Tower of London is also one of the many Arthurian legends out there, and it was in a move to usurp ancient superstition in what was quickly becoming a predominately Christian time. However, King Arthur still makes his ancient promise to protect England even after death, and return when he is needed most. However much I love Arthur…that's so calling the kettle black, dude.

-In several versions of the Arthurian legends, King Arthur is slain by his illegitimate son, Mordred (this name has many different versions, but this is the one I know best) during the Battle of Camlann. Mordred dies by Arthur's hand during the battle, but the fatal wound he inflicts upon Arthur seals his fate and his last act is to give his sword, Excalibur, to Sir Bedivere to return to the Lady of the Lake. There are a couple of versions that say he also made his promise to England during this time, but other accounts say it was before the final battle even took place.

-As a quick note: in my head-canon, Arthur lost his ability to use magic and see the "otherworld" (i.e. fairies, unicorns, ECT) centuries before the story here takes place. Revealing why or how that happened would spoil the history I plan to write on him, but it's safe to say that the loss of it was a great blow to Arthur's entire being. He misses it greatly, even centuries later, but having had and raised Alfred greatly helped where constantly being preoccupied with building his empire could not. I really think he loved being Alfred's dad, despite all that happens come 1776.

I thank you all for reading and once again extend a happy birthday and best wishes to **Zombie4Pie**! Thank you for being such a wonderful fan and friend, my dear; I hope you have a marvelous day!

Sincerely,

_General Kitty Girl_


	6. Dog Tags

**~Dog Tags~**

_"Charlie on the Six! Hold that Beach-Line!"_

_He couldn't run fast enough – he never could. No matter how hard he tried he couldn't get there before the whistling pierced his eardrums and the bombs exploded. The world always spun, as debris and flames mercilessly assaulted him, burying him alive beneath the cast off and leaving him dying beneath soil and shattered pieces of his men._

_He couldn't cry out, he couldn't breathe or scream for help because his throat felt wired shut. The world spun again, his head endlessly echoing the piercing shriek of another missile before the bayonet came down on him._

_And suddenly he could scream again._

* * *

><p><em>"Alfred. Alfred. Alfred – "<em>

_Cold sweat poured down his face as he stared wide-eyed and unseeingly at the man before him. He was shaking so badly, and he couldn't relax any muscle in his body. He was tensed, bracing for the bayonet's inevitable impact while still buried and alone._

_Alone. Alone…_

_The hands before him remained in sight, palms out and unarmed. The man was on his knees, resting back on his heels and speaking to him softly with an accent that had nothing to do with Asia. Slowly, Alfred's rapid breathing began to calm and he blinked for the first time since waking from the nightmare…the memory. He looked at Arthur for the first time without the past engulfing him…_

_And he cried, not caring about how desperately he sobbed into the arms now holding him._

* * *

><p><em>Alfred sat stoically on the edge of the bed, staring aimlessly at the wall with a far off gaze. The memories still haunted him, but they were farther away now, just lingering around the edge of his consciousness and waiting to attack him again once he fell asleep.<em>

_The bedroom was quiet – a sharp contrast to all of his screaming just an hour before, and the darkness remained still. He was Stateside again and all was meant to be safe here…but he could not find comfort in the lie any more than he could close his eyes without fear. He barely noticed movement on the bed behind him, but knew who it was without looking._

_Not the enemy…not the enemy…not the enemy…_

_Arthur didn't reach out to touch him immediately, but waited until Alfred's tension lessened; then, gently spoke to him before pressing his body against the American's back and embracing him. They stayed like that for a long while before the Brit lifted his head from the other's neck and carefully ran his fingers along Alfred's dog tags._

_"It does get better, love…some day you will be able to take these off and rest." _

_Alfred said nothing, and Arthur rested his chin atop Alfred's shoulder, keeping his arms around the other as he turned the silver discs over and over again in his hand. He had memorized the information on the plates…He knew everything from how Alfred's name had been stamped unevenly, to the serial number along the bottom edge of each side. He felt the familiar wear along the surfaces, felt the all too accustomed weight of them…and the weight of the memories they brought._

_He closed his eyes and buried his face against Alfred's neck, breathing deeply before sighing and warming the chilled skin. He slowly brought the tags back down and held them against Alfred's chest, gripping the American's body tightly, as if he could hold him together on his own._

_"I swear it, Alfred…you will be whole again."_

**~Fin~**

* * *

><p><em>Notes from the Author:<em>

This is a short fic inspired by a drawing done by FirelordPie (also known as Zombie4Pie). I have been in a terrible writing slump as of late, and while trying to finish multiple projects amidst the chaos of life, I finally found the spark to write and FINISH something. However short, I am proud of this one it has great personal significance to me.

The time frame of this fic is after the Vietnam War. "Charlie" was an American code name given to North Vietnamese combatants during the war, and a "beach-line" is the front line in a fight. Yes, this story is a reflection of acute post-war PTSD. Arthur, being much older and more seasoned than Alfred, has seen his fair share of war but reacts much differently to it. It really is painful on the deepest levels to see someone you love and respect afflicted with such an all-consuming psychosis, which really is like an unending nightmare. It takes a lot of patience, stability and understanding to help someone suffering with PTSD; I greatly respect those who serve as rocks for them.

Sincerely,

_General Kitty Girl_


	7. Fairytale

**[WARNING: This fic is rated "M" for mature and contains scenes of violence, death, and yaoi. **

**Please refrain from reading if any of these contents trouble or offend you. I thank you for **

**your maturity and respect.]**

**~Fairytale~**

_A beach without sand. Cool pebbles felt like dulled daggers against his bare skin, but the icy wash of the sea soothed the phantom wounds. The briny water filled and cleaned each metaphysical cut and drew the pain away, as it receded once more beneath the veil of fog. The world beyond the rocky shore was a mystery. The horizon stretched on into infinity every morning, leaving only the jagged rocks outlining the only tangible things in this floating world…_

_Just the pebble shoreline and the reaching touch of the sea, calling to him from the grey. _

_He stood at the water's edge and kept his eyes on the endless void. The cold air was a solid thing encapsulating him in a damp and suspended time. The sound of the tide against the shore echoed in every corner of the ethereal curtain, and submerged him. This eerie, unnatural morning, each brush of the Atlantic beneath his feet, and the claustrophobia all felt like home…he was underwater and willingly drowning._

_When his eyes traveled down to the equally naked body at his feet, so still and unnatural in this thalassic world…he saw that the boy was drowning too._

_And it made him sad._

"Arthur, you awake?"

Awareness of the warm bed melted away the chill of a morning long since passed, and the softness of down linens replaced the harshness of pebbles. A hand slipped down his neck and under the blanket, traveling along his back and gently massaging his muscles. The heat of another body pressed closer to him, slowly sidling against him to fit along the length of his form, making him realize how stiff he had been. He relaxed to conform to his bedmate, and surrendered to the other's touches as he allowed him to manipulate his body at will.

He was encompassed in such dry warmth…it felt stifling, somehow.

"You were cold again…did you dream?"

He always dreamed the same dream and woke the same way: cold and longing. It had been this way for years, and still Alfred never gave up hope that one morning things might be different. Alfred still hoped that one morning Arthur might wake up as warm as he had fallen asleep, and somehow his mind might have given him the reprieve he needed from the past. The blessed boy wanted Arthur to move forward from that imprisoning moment in time and live in the present with him; he wanted Arthur holding his hand in the moment, touching him in the moment, and moving into the future with him. He wanted Arthur to wake up one morning without remembering _that_ morning…to finally have a morning beyond that one.

Arthur knew that; it's why he never said a word when Alfred asked him about his dreams. For years he had left that question unanswered because he could not bear to see the hurt in those beautiful sky-blue eyes, so full of fragile hope.

Instead he always took that precious face into his hands and pressed his lips against his. He always gave him an honest kiss, where he could not give him honest words. Alfred wanted to believe in hope too much to question it and never rebuked him; he always kissed back and pressed his smaller lover back into the warm sheets, careful to treat his body with such tenderness it made the other's old soul ache.

* * *

><p><em>Arthur had known Alfred a long time. He had spent his days observing Alfred from the rocks in the bay when Alfred was nothing more than a small, golden-haired child playing along the shoreline. He enjoyed watching Alfred chase after the tide in games of tag, he enjoyed watching him pretend he was a clever predator stalking the gulls and hunting rock crabs amongst the bluffs. He had watched Alfred gleefully sift through miles of pebbles and choose the prettiest ones to add to an ever-growing collection of treasures that included everything from shells to feathers; even his prized shark tooth he stumbled upon one day in the shoals. Alfred had picnics with his parents when the weather was warm, and his father had taught him to fish on the pier down from the lighthouse. His mother was a frail woman, but still shared with her son how to fly a kite when the breezes off the water would best make the homemade wind-dancer soar.<em>

_Alfred was a loved and loving boy, and best of all he was a brave lad too. When his parents weren't watching, Alfred would venture out into the cove where he could best see the king who lived in the bay, though his parents told him such a thing didn't exist…_

_But Alfred knew better, it was his and the king's little secret, and the most precious and dearest secret to Arthur's heart._

_Arthur had been alone for a very, very long time. Centuries had passed since he had seen others of his kind, all of whom had left the chilly waters of the north Atlantic or reached the end of their long lifespans. In times before the lighthouse was built, Arthur used to find shipwrecked sailors and ferry survivors to safer waters. It hadn't been wanting to save human life that had driven him, but wanting contact with other sentient beings. Men drifting in and out of consciousness would often babble deliriously at the sight of him, but soon decide that the situation was too fantastical to remain incoherent for. He had learned many languages of the world, heard many stories about his kind and found himself captivated by this curious race of land-dwelling creatures. It began to sadden him when he could not save many of the humans he had tried to…but soon that too became only a memory._

_The lighthouse had been a most fascinating thing; a great towering spire atop the rocky cliffs of the coast that shined with a beacon powered by a captured star. Arthur would stare at it for nights in wonder. Each sweeping beam of light ghosted over the rocks like a caressing hand, dispelling the treacherous shadows and the hex of fear surrounding the jagged edges of the bluffs. Its light also seemed to cast an enchantment of safety over the passing ships, and soon vessels sailed through Arthur's domain unchallenged and left him alone…and forgotten._

_The loneliness he had tried so hard to fight consumed him, and soon he began to resent the mariner's god-send upon his cliffs. _

_And then Alfred was born._

_The keepers of the lighthouse, a man and his wife, had one small child in love with the sea. He grew up as alone and without peers as Arthur, but seemed oblivious to it so long as he had the sea. He would greet it every morning and bid it good night every evening; he played games and shared his most precious possessions with it, throwing back to the ocean what he felt was a fair trade for its gifts given. He would often sit on the pier and read his books aloud as though the sea were listening, and one day it spoke back…_

_And introduced itself as Arthur._

* * *

><p>Arthur could never get used to shoes, and regardless of the stones that jabbed and the splinters that stabbed, he preferred the pain of being barefoot to the unnatural confinement of footwear. He felt the cool wood beneath his feet and watched the water lap against the support pillars of the dock. He couldn't look away from the lazily moving surface…he hadn't felt the touch of the sea on his skin since that morning so many years ago. It wasn't from lack of want by any means; no…it was because of fear.<p>

He was afraid that if he touched it…he'd never want come back.

"Hey, there's suppose to be a storm comin', I thought you'd be inside?"

Arthur didn't initially respond as Alfred neared, but soon gave a listless shrug and finally looked away from the water. "I hadn't heard anything on the radio. I'm sorry if I worried you."

Alfred stopped in his tracks and stared at Arthur's back for a moment. They both knew Arthur knew what the weather would be like before any manufactured instrument; the man knew the skies and sea better than any creature alive. He wasn't human…yet he was always trying to pretend to be.

But for whose sake? Alfred had no illusions about what Arthur was any more than Arthur did.

Arthur put on a smiling human face again and turned to him. "Is it my turn to make dinner?"

For years the two had been playing this game, taking turns with such mundane chores as though it would make things normal. But in the end Arthur, who had never had a palate for human food, was as terrible a cook as Alfred was a horrible housekeeper. Each of them would say it was his turn to do this or that, but in reality the routines never changed…just like them…eternally trapped in the same time and pretending they weren't.

But unlike Alfred, Arthur had no hope of it ever changing.

"No, I'll take care of it tonight, if you don't mind doing the dishes," he replied, falling into step like a dutiful dance partner, and sighed as Arthur smiled again and brushed passed him as he began heading for their home beneath the lighthouse.

Alfred was its keeper now, a responsibility he inherited from his father. He had also inherited a number of scars that littered his body, all caused by the old man's grief after the death of the only woman in both of their lives. He could hide the scars easily enough beneath the layers of clothing needed in such a cold environment, but the lighthouse was something he couldn't hide, not even when the fog coming in off the ocean was impenetrable and concealed every detail of its being. The light always cut through the blackest darkness and the thickest haze; just like how the reminders of what had happened in this place never stayed buried.

Alfred looked down at the water and saw the calm tide begin slipping away. The storm was approaching fast…just like it did back then.

* * *

><p><em>The nearest doctors lived on the mainland, which was only accessible by boat until low tide made the sandbar passable on foot. She had fallen ill not long into November, and by Christmas she had been completely bedridden. Alfred was only twelve at the time, but still couldn't understand how grave the situation really was.<em>

_Mom had been sick before, but she always got better. Alfred just painted her more pictures of the world outside so she'd have it to look at from her bedroom, and sometimes he even painted her pictures of the King of the Bay. _

_He really loved painting his friend who lived out in the bay, and his mom loved seeing what she had always thought was her son's imagination at work. Arthur had pale, sun-washed blond hair and beautiful pearly skin that never tanned. His eyes were entrancing, like imperial-cut emeralds with souls of topaz. Alfred really loved Arthur's eyes…but it was his tail that his mother had loved most. Arthur's tail was nearly twice the length of his human torso, with a predatory silhouette, and colored like a view of twilight rising from beneath the sea. His underside was as white as the inside of an oyster, and the gradually darkening blue moving up his sides ended in a striking midnight stripe along his back. His tail was so glossy and smooth, like real skin, and when the sunlight caught along its surface it blended into the sea like a giant, living sapphire._

_Alfred had just finished painting such a picture of his friend on New Year's morning when she died. _

_He had come into her room to see his father crying on his knees beside her bed. He was dreadful and screaming incoherently, and the boy hadn't understood what was happening until he reached the bed and felt his mother's cold hand. He hadn't touched her long before his father's hand grabbed his arm to the point of pain and threw him from the room. _

_It had been his father's first mental break of many, and Alfred had come to learn just how vital isolation and his mother had been to his father's fragile mind. _

_While Alfred tried his best to fulfill the roles his mother left behind, nothing he ever did was good enough for his father. Alfred accidently broke dishes when he washed them and would be punished; he would forget to pick up his books in the living room and would be punished. There came a point where his father had taken to drinking, and the temporary relief it first brought was soon forgotten for how much worse it became._

_One evening, his father took all of the paintings Alfred had given as gifts to his mother, and casually burned them in the fire saying they would be of more use that way. It had been the first time Alfred had struck back against the man, but it mattered little – his father was still bigger, and his punches hurt far worse._

_Alfred would spend as much time at the cove as he could, as far from the sight of his father and his home as he could get, to stay with Arthur. The boy knew his deteriorating situation was hurting his friend, he could see it in his eyes. Arthur had taken to the practice of checking Alfred over for injuries whenever the boy would let him, and when he cried Arthur would lie on the rocks and hold him close._

_Sometimes he would lull the boy to sleep with a song, other times he would distract him from the pain with a story…but always he would hold him until the threatening dawn when he had to slip beneath the waves once again. His mandatory absence was only until the dawn had come and gone, but he always left too soon and for too long for Alfred._

_Until that one dawn…the one after the storm that changed everything._

_The old man was in another drunken stupor and hadn't checked to refuel the gas containers keeping the beacon lit, and once again Alfred found himself completing the task. _

_He was only sixteen then and considered himself alone in the world, but for his friend in the bay. He never spoke to his father unless it was necessary and any other kind of interaction with the man was even rarer. He tried avoiding him at all costs, preferring to live as though he were the only human on the spit of land he had also grown to resent._

_He had been hooking up the last of the deposits when he heard the crackle of thunder in the distance, and rising from his position beneath the beacon's lamp, he saw the pitch-blackness of the storm rolling in from the east. He stared at it in wonder for some time, but soon another crash of thunder jolted him into motion when it rattled the windows around him. _

_The boy had quickly raced down the spiral steps leading to the ground floor, and the moment he ran out of the door the pelting rain cut into him. He tried shielding his face from the painful squalls, but it was hard enough to see his way back to the house without his arm in the way. But it wasn't the light of the house that caught his eye; it was movement out on the dock._

_Alfred turned and beheld the sight of his father, stumbling in his intoxication and fight with the wind, making his way out to the end of the pier._

_He screamed out his name but it was lost to the violent gales, and his race for the dock felt like slow motion. He kept trying to run faster and reach for him, but the moment he was close enough, the moment his fingers began to curl into the fabric of his father's shirt, the sea exploded around them and grabbed them both instead._

_He only remembered how cold it was, how horribly the world spun as he churned in the vicious waters. He couldn't discern up or down, where salvation was or what would sink him deeper. He clawed and kicked, screamed into the nothingness and felt panic consuming him. His lungs were trapped in the ever-compressing vice of his body, and the icy talons of the Atlantic wrapped around his throat and began squeezing. Nothing made sense; there wasn't a coherent thought in his body but fight, live, _live_! _

_Then the thoughts were gone. _

_Like an ice pike to his brain, sudden, sharp pain pierced his head and then the cold began to lift. His muscles began to relax as though his body was preparing for sleep, and suddenly the world was a directionless…weightless place. It didn't matter how dark it was anymore…it didn't matter that it was quiet…_

_It was peace, and nothing hurt anymore._

_But then a new hand reached for him…_

_It hadn't let him go since._

* * *

><p>"Ah-…<em>Ah<em>-…Nn-"

Arthur's hands were tightly fisted in the bed sheets, as Alfred interlaced his fingers with them from behind. The American was pressed heavily along his back, his head against his shoulder, as his pelvis began thrusting into him harder and faster. Alfred's body was so hot it burned; his blood was so warm, and Arthur felt as if it was all rushing into him and setting him on fire.

He couldn't ever get enough air; it was as though the air wasn't adequate enough to sustain his lungs that had been born to breathe underwater. The heat of his constant exhalation mixed with Alfred's, the feel of such warm human flesh all over his hypersensitive skin, and the struggle it was taking to keep his limbs from caving beneath the pressure and the pleasure, was all too much. He was shaking, and soon a half-choked sob escaped him before Alfred's hands grasped his tighter and drew his upper body against his in an embrace.

Arthur felt like a man pulled up to the surface, and the cooler air hit his face and filled his lungs. They were both on their knees now; Arthur's back was flush against Alfred's chest, as the American held him tightly. Arthur felt that Alfred had stopped moving inside of him, and the man was placing gentle kisses on the side of his face and neck…as if he were taking the moment's reprieve to give his lover an apology.

"I didn't mean to hurt you."

Arthur took a few calming breaths and closed his eyes, refusing to allow the tears to fall. "I know."

Alfred seemed to hold him tighter then and buried his face in his lover's neck. Neither of them spoke for a time and left the unspoken apology as one meant for the moment of pain induced by passion…but soon Arthur felt the hot wetness of tears sliding down his back. Had Alfred not been keeping such a tight hold on his hands, he would have tried to use his touch to sooth his beloved as always. But Alfred wouldn't let go…he couldn't let go.

He never wanted to let go; not any more now than he did all those years ago, when these very hands pulled him out of the sea.

"Please…please don't regret having saved me," he pleaded in a whisper against the skin of his lover and dearest friend.

Arthur had lost the fight with his tears and let them fall; crying was the only touch of salt water he could savor anymore. "I don't, my love."

_I only regret having not saved myself, too._

* * *

><p><em>The storm had come far too quickly for him to warn Alfred, but Arthur had been sure the smart lad would have found shelter to safely wait out the tempest. Arthur had been intending to do the same, going deep into the protection offered by the bay when he heard the noises from land.<em>

_He thought it had been Alfred upon that dock, at first, but soon recognized the despicable man who called himself the boy's father and felt terrible hate well within him._

_This man had brought the lighthouse here that had plunged him into despair. This man had also hurt his precious Alfred, his only friend and treasure. He had caused both him and Alfred so much pain and loneliness; he had brought so much sadness to a place he had called home for centuries. This man was the embodiment of all that he loathed…_

_He deserved to die._

_The sea was more than prepared to unleash its fury upon the shore, and bent so willingly to Arthur's own rage. The tide reared back like a wicked serpent, and the wave rose up with a crest that expanded like the unfurling hood of a cobra. The rains falling from the sky gave his mighty kraken teeth, and in one great sweep it struck the dock with jaws wide open._

_He saw it too late – the glint of the possessing lighthouse beacon upon an ever nearing golden young man. His eyes beheld the sight in horror, and suddenly his great beast consumed that most despicable man and his beloved boy._

_He fought the wind and tides; he cut through the waters and kept searching for that one warm being of light he so cherished. He hunted with no thoughts of blood in his mind, but of sky-blue eyes and how much he longed to see them again. Time was his enemy, and it soon laughed at his desperation when he found a body of warmth in the cold and realized it was not his Alfred – but that man…_

_He was still alive, just barely, and Arthur didn't think twice about letting him go._

_The Atlantic became more violent, displeased with his sacrifice, and the search turned even more frantic as the sea began to smash him against the rocks. His skin split from the multiple impacts and his blood spilt into the raging waters, but he searched on. Finally, he found his Alfred just as the last of the warmth fled his body._

_All he could think to do was to get him back to land, and nurse that spark of warmth back to life._

_Arthur had never crossed the shoreline before that night. He let the furious tide sweep him over the rocks, as he clung tightly to Alfred's body. He clawed and pulled himself along the unforgiving surfaces with Alfred for so long, but finally found the hollowed-out rock that would shelter them for the rest of the storm. _

_Arthur removed Alfred's icy and saturated clothes, and held Alfred closely against him throughout the night. The fear he felt every waking moment, how fast his heart had raced, and how badly he shook as he kept trying to protect and warm Alfred had been like nothing he had ever felt before. Alfred's breaths were so shallow he could barely believe air was getting into his lungs; it was only his sporadic coughs that reinforced that he still had a chance. Even Alfred's heartbeat, his beautiful, treasured heartbeat, was so ghost-like. _

_He had never felt so horrible in his life. He had never regretted his actions more in the centuries he had been alive. He had done this…he had hurt his beloved friend more than even his deplorable excuse for a father had; more than the terrible loneliness that plagued them both._

_For the first time in his life Arthur had cried; and not a day had passed since that he went without doing so._

_That morning the dawn had come behind an obscuring veil of fog. It was impossible to see the sun or even the damage on the earth below it; only the ever-rotating light from above continued to illuminate an otherwise grey world._

_Arthur had walked onto the shore for the first time, that morning. He stopped just short of the water's reach and stood silent and motionless as he watched it ebb and flow over the pebbled beach. _

_He couldn't tear his eyes away from it…from the muted blue he had known for so long in every shade of its existence. He longed for its cool touch, he yearned to slip beneath its embrace and beg forgiveness for his actions the previous night…_

_But it wasn't the sea that had to forgive him, it was the boy – naked and just warm enough to sustain life – in his arms, that had to forgive him._

_Because Arthur knew…he could never forgive himself._

* * *

><p>For the first morning in years, Arthur woke up from his dream alone. His body was cold, and he opened his eyes to a subdued sunlight beyond the windowpane and Alfred's empty place on the bed. The change disturbed him and he rose from the bed to search for the missing American.<p>

Dressed but for his feet, Arthur turned up an empty search of the house and stepped outside into a cold, fog-thickened morning. Everything was muffled, from the sounds of his feet over the pebbled ground to the sounds of the tide lapping against the surrounding rocks. Arthur didn't know why he didn't call out for Alfred in hopes he might answer, but he soon found his way to the dock and the outline of the American standing at the end of it.

His stomach felt pitted with ice; something was wrong, but Arthur continued down the wooden path to the end and stopped just behind his lover. Alfred never responded, but Arthur knew the man was aware of his presence.

"…Alfred?"

"I forgave you, you know…for not saving my dad."

Arthur didn't say anything, and soon Alfred continued in a voice that was far too calm for the subject he was discussing. "I still never doubted you were a good person, and my friend. I've never once doubted you, Arthur, not once since the first time we met." His voice trailed off but soon returned, and Arthur knew he had been crying. "But all this time…you've been trying to be something you're not, for me, and I've been letting you. I forgave you so long ago and still I let the chains of your guilt keep you so miserable and living such a lie. You…you never once stopped me either, because you're not the monster you think you are."

Arthur didn't understand. He understood what Alfred was saying and that his words were cutting deeper than the rocks of that night ever could, but he didn't understand _why _Alfred was saying this. Change had never been kind to either of them, and since that night they had lived in a world without change. No, neither of them had ever reached that level of happiness they had before, but they were safe and together – they weren't alone anymore.

Wasn't that enough? It had to be enough. He had been living this entire time believing it was enough.

Penance for what he had done; an eternity of righting his wrong for so terribly altering the world of his most precious treasure.

"Please, Alfred…don't do this…" _I can't bear the change._

Alfred turned to him then and Arthur could see the dampness of his eyes and face; he had been crying for some time. Arthur instinctively stepped forward to take his face and kiss away the hurt, but when he raised his hands Alfred grabbed his wrists and held them still.

Arthur was so confused, it was too much to take in at once when Alfred was suddenly the one grabbing his face and kissing him.

When the initial shock wore off and Arthur attempted to kiss him back, Alfred released his lips and held him close, hugging him almost too tightly…in fact, Arthur was finding it hard to breath.

"You saved me, Arthur," Alfred whispered, his throat constricting so much it was nearly impossible to get the words out. "You gave your life for me…and now I have to give it back."

Arthur's eyes widened just before Alfred tightened his hold further and stepped back off the pier, breaking the silence of the morning and plunging them into the frigid water.

Arthur panicked. For the second time in his life, insurmountable fear burst within him and he began to thrash and fight. Alfred's hold on him never lessened, and Arthur could see past the bubbles that Alfred's expression was tight and resigned, and his body strangely relaxed but for his hold.

He was screaming, his pleas for Alfred to let go and get back to the surface were lost to the sea, and soon the last of his remaining air was, too. He continued to kick and try squeezing himself out of Alfred's hold, but sooner than his mind was ready to accept, his body was tired and giving up the struggle. He shook his head as if the motion for denial might also keep the water from invading his mouth and nostrils, but soon he could no longer power his movements and he stilled.

His body relaxed and his eyes began to close, just as he inhaled for the first time in the Atlantic since that night…

Alfred's arms let go at some point, and as Alfred rose to the surface Arthur continued to drift away…until he couldn't see him any more.

* * *

><p>The breeze off the water was warm and damp, smelling heavily of salt and sand. The soft shift of it beneath his feet was so different from any shore he had ever known, but he couldn't say he didn't like it. Each tiny crystal that gave substance to the beach was so warmed by the sun, and contoured to his form upon its surface.<p>

It was a calm ocean today with no storms or fog in sight. He set his book down to admire how much different the Atlantic looked this far south of where he'd been born. He didn't regret leaving that cold and lonely place years ago…

No…he regretted nothing. He only missed his most precious treasure he had returned to the sea.

"Hans Christian Andersen…one of my favorites."

Alfred froze and never tore his eyes from the view of the Atlantic as he felt someone sit down beside him.

"In my favorite story, a young woman saves the life of a human and falls in love with him. To be with him, she sells her tongue to a witch and gives up her life beneath the sea for one on land," he began, not seeming to mind that his body was touching and comfortably fitting against the other. "She can never say a word to him. She never gets to tell him her true feelings or share her heart in song…but somehow, he knows. He just knows she's special, and the two form a bond."

Tears began to fall down Alfred's face, emotion turning his sky-blue eyes as cerulean as the sea beneath the setting sun, and his voice began to shake. "But the prince can't believe her without her voice and the two never end up together…She was heartbroken and given the chance to return to the sea if only she killed the prince…" His stomach tightened at that, but strangely he felt nothing else but a deeply seeded sorrow…and acceptance.

"Hm…but she didn't, did she?" The man beside him replied, and leaned closer to him…making Alfred's heart clench when he felt the other's head come to rest on his shoulder. "Her life was to end that dawn because the spell would end…but fate took mercy upon her. Her sacrifice turned her into a spirit of the air, able to return with a soul one day if only she performed good deeds for the children of the world."

Alfred closed his eyes and rested his head against the pale, sun-washed blond hair against his neck. "Do you believe that's what really happened?"

"No, Alfred, that's just a fairytale," his companion said with a smile, reaching down to take one of the hands still clutching the book. "Reality tells us a story of the prince having been the one who first fell in love, and it was he who made the ultimate sacrifice by returning his beloved to her first love of the sea. He then drifted through the world as an air spirit…alone for so many years, hoping that one day his purgatory might end."

Swallowing thickly, Alfred's hand squeezed the one around his tighter and he buried his face into his companion's hair. "Tell me…did you find happiness?"

With his free hand, the man beside him reached up and gently touched Alfred's sun-kissed face, wiping away the tears as he smiled. "It took a few years…but today has finally happened, hasn't it?"

**~Fin~**

* * *

><p><em>Notes from the Author<em>:

This is a very different kind of fic from me, I know, and its one I wrote in taking a break from the multitude of other fics and chapters I have going on at the moment. This fic actually debuted on my Tumblr as a gift fic to _Zombie4Pie_/_Skyootumcrux_ and is based on elements of a dream prompt she gave to me: a lighthouse, rocky shores, and a little boy lost on a dock. This gift to her is both in thanks for all of the beautiful artwork she has done for my stories and for being such a wonderful friend. I wish to thank _AcquaToffana _for Beta editing this for me, and _Victoriawings_/_Gelatokitty_ for giving me the song and ultimately the encouragement that helped me to finish this fic. I hope you all have enjoyed it. :')

Notes~

-The pillars of this story are based on the given dream prompt, but the foundations of this story are more or less based on Hans Christian Andersen's "_The Little Mermaid_" (and yeah, it really is that different from the Disney version ^^; ). To summarize it: the mermaid in the story had fallen in love with a human prince, and to be with him she sold her tongue to a witch for a pair of legs. Her unnatural limbs caused her pain everyday she walked upon them, and only earning the true love of the prince and marrying him would end her pain and give her a human soul. To earn his love she pretended she was a perfect human; beautiful, loyal, and soon she became the prince's best friend and confidant. He loved her, but in a more familial or friendly sense than a romantic one – and eventually he married the princess of a neighboring nation, who he mistook for the maiden who saved his life during the night of a terrible storm (though it was the mermaid who saved him). The terms of her agreement with the witch were that if the prince married another then the little mermaid's heart would break, and she would die. She would fall into the sea and return to it as sea foam – soulless and inconsequential. Instead, her sisters had made their own deal with the witch, trading their hair for a dagger that would return the young woman back into a mermaid if she plunged it into the prince's heart and let her feet soak in his blood. She had prepared herself to do it before the dawn came and her life would end, but at the last minute she couldn't do it and threw the dagger and herself back into the sea. As she reverted to sea foam, the spirits of the air came to her and changed her into one of them, telling her that they had seen her suffering and good deeds, and wished to welcome her among them so that she could obtain a human soul. For 300 years the little mermaid would drift through the world, bringing happiness and blessings to those in need, and at the end of her spirit life, and if God deemed her worthy, she would have a human soul and finally find true peace in heaven. The parallels made to this story are intentionally complex, as it would seem very cut and dry to keep Arthur in the mermaid's role and Alfred as the prince for the entire story. However, as the relationship depicted is thrust from stagnant to dynamic, their roles change too. :) There are multiple main roles to parallel in this story, the primary roles of this story are as follows:

-The Prince

-The Mermaid

-The Witch

-The Princess of the Neighboring Country

-The Air Spirits

Readers will individually see which role each character in the story has taken in the beginning, and which they eventually end with. :) I leave each reader with those thoughts and hope they take up the challenge of paralleling them thoughtfully and constructively.

:) It's a fun challenge that can be taken or passed over; and for the record, there is no reasonably wrong way to read any story. Regardless of the challenge, I truly hope you all have enjoyed this story and that my brief venture into this very different type of fic has not caused anyone to loose faith in me as the type of writer I am. Thank you for reading and I wish you all the best.

Sincerely,

_General Kitty Girl_


	8. Union

**~Union~**

_It was freezing in this dark place; there was a window, but the sunlight never seemed to penetrate the bars across it. It smelled of mold and damp hay, and the only distant sounds were of men sobbing and metal doors creaking. His body felt sore and heavy and he couldn't breathe. His wrists hurt, being tightly wrapped in cold irons and weighed down by heavy chains. He was scared, but somehow this place was far preferable to whatever unknown lay beyond this one._

_Suddenly, the metal door separating him from that unknown beyond opened, and men in grey coats filed in. Fear, true icy cold fear, coiled in his stomach and he pushed himself as far from these men as he could – his back hitting a frozen wall as his body trembled for reasons beyond instinct he couldn't understand. _

_The men advanced, and he couldn't stop them when they reached down and took hold – grabbing him viciously and painfully digging unyielding fingers into his skin. He wanted to cry out, but his throat was paralyzed and he could scarcely breathe. He struggled, but it was useless as they only pulled him harder and forced him to his feet before dragging his flailing body from the room. _

_All at once there was light – burning, terrible light that scalded his eyes and forced him to shut it out, as it only added to his pain. The earlier sound of the distant sobbing was now enveloping him and evolving into screaming, shrieks of terror and pleas for mercy. He wanted to cry and plead too, but he still could not make sounds beyond his staccato gasping. The world was soon deteriorating as the men dragging him began hauling him up a rise leading out of that cold, dark place and into a very different world._

_The light was soon the most oppressive governor of his senses; the sun beating down on him like a forger's hammer – burning his skin and cutting into his brain. His captors roughly yanked him back onto his feet, and it was only then he realized he had fallen to the ground. For that brief moment he remembered what real earth felt like, but too soon that short-lived blessing was gone. They were still moving him, taking him somewhere, and slowly he managed to open his eyes enough to make out the blurred shapes around him._

_The sight made him wish he were blind again._

_Men dressed in their military and gentleman's finest were gathered in rows on either side of him, making an aisle for the men dragging him to lead him down. Men of every size, shape, and age were present, all of them looking at him with expressions of disgust, hatred and mild curiosity – but they all had two colors in common: white and grey. And before them all, looking like a great sacrificial altar to an alien god, was a huge wooden scaffold with a noose swinging lightly in a breeze he couldn't feel._

_His breath hitched and his heart stopped at the sight. The world narrowed down to that one fatefully beckoning rope and the man in black standing next to it – a priest who might as well have been an executioner._

_They were leading him up the steps now, but he didn't want to go and suddenly remembered how to fight. His muscles tensed and he dug his heels into the wooden planks, sending one of his subjugators off balance and causing both of them to fall. He barely felt the impact or heard the shouts of commotion in his panic, but regardless of his efforts his delay was only that, and soon the butt of a rifle slammed into the side of his head and removed what little spirit remained in him. _

_He only remembered being weightless for a time before reality returned as he was dropped down into a chair. Everything inside his skull was throbbing and the haze of his vision was tinged with red. He swayed in his seat, teetering until a hand clamped down onto his shoulder and forced him to sit straight. The foul smell of sour breath and hot curses assaulted him, but worse was the sudden piercing wetness on his cheek from someone having spat on him. He tried to shake filth and the disorientation off, but all the move did was increase the nausea plaguing his stomach, and he had to turn away from the brightness of the crowd before him._

_He heard footsteps of someone walking up onto the platform and a loud, booming voice began reading off something official, but his mind just couldn't stay focused as his eyes fell upon the ground to the north of him…and suddenly he couldn't hear anything anymore._

_Twenty-two. There were twenty-two plots dug out of the earth and less than half of them where already covered…while the rest still had empty wooden coffins resting next to them. He stared…and stared at them…but the terrible mixture of horror and morbid fascination would not release him._

_He was going to die today, and this is where he would be buried. Right here in this horrible place, so intolerably cold and burning all at once, he beheld his own grave. He was going to be confined for eternity beneath the earth of this terrible prison full of people who hated him, cursed him, and now damned him because he did not wear grey. He would share his fate with twenty-one others he did not know, but all of whom shared his crime of allegiance, and still he felt terrible loneliness grip him._

_He was about to die and all he could think about was how lonely it would be to be buried in a place like this, where no one he knew or loved would be beside him in death and the living could never visit. He would be a hated memory within a forgotten box, hidden away beneath an unmarked plot of dirt. His heart broke, and he no more cared about the tears falling from his eyes than he did about the jeers of the men beside him._

"_By order of Jefferson Davis, president of the Confederate States of America, and carried out under the authority of General Major George Edward Pickett…you are hereby sentenced to be executed for the crime of treason against the great state of North Carolina and the Confederacy."_

_The indictments never took seed in his heart, because in his heart he knew the truth that he had never committed any treason. The men in grey, those who his native state had sided with, had only wanted to secede from the country he considered home. In his heart he had done the right thing by choosing to forward the ideals of the Union, of _a_ Union, of being whole again as it was in a time without war. He had made the choice to wear blue because he had believed in doing what was best for the people and home he loved more than anything…_

_Now, he was going to die for it._

_They may have asked him for last words but he had none to give. The tears continued to fall as someone placed a canvas bag over his head and tightly fitted the noose around his neck. The men on either side of him grabbed his arms again and stood him up, forcing him forward before withdrawing and leaving him bound and isolated at the edge of the dais. _

_He was alone again, so very alone and in total darkness, just as he would be for eternity…_

_His hands clenched and his stomach tightened. His heart was pounding and the bag was stifling. All he could hear was the sound of his own quickened breaths and his blood rushing through his veins. He was scared, so scared. He didn't want to die but there was nothing he could do to stop it. _

_He was going to die…and no one beyond these people who hated him would know it._

"_Amen."_

The world beneath his feet was gone, and he screamed. He kept screaming and screaming until his lungs gave out, and the moment he could draw breath again he screamed even louder – trailing off into gut-wrenching sobs.

He had awakened once again, alone and in the dark, smelling the stale air of an enclosed world devoid of freedom. He was cold again, freezing and collapsed on the floor of his all too familiar cell, drenched in sweat and tears. He raised a shaking hand from where it remained buried in a crater in the concrete and watched the blood of his wounds drip from where the skin had split upon impact. He'd been fighting again in his night terrors, trying to change events from times and places he knew not where in relation to the present…and another sob escaped him.

That boy who had died – whom he had died with – had been number eight…eight of twenty-two he had to die with, and he curled in upon himself where he lay, holding himself with his trembling arms as if it might help shield him from the terrible plague of this war ripping his mind apart. He had never felt more agony or loneliness in his life, and each time he stood upon a scaffold or laid in a trench with one of his dying soldiers he knew they felt that horrible pain too. He wanted so badly for this all to end, even though he knew that it wouldn't matter which side of his rifted country won…the pain of defeat was his to feel regardless.

Grey or blue, Rebel or Yank, Confederacy or Union; every soldier in this conflict had been born American and died as such. Every soldier that took to the battlefield and tore the landscape of his nation asunder was ripping the flesh from his bones, and every American life held a piece of his soul that tormented him in ways beyond mortal comprehension when suffering or lost.

He was dying, yet he could not die. He was so exhausted but could not sleep. He could neither remember the time nor day, nor could he recall the last time he truly saw the outside of his prison. He had been brought here for his own protection and for others to be protected from him…but really; there was no sparing him or his people anything.

This war tore him apart despite these stone walls, just as it tore this nation apart in spite of all of his government's efforts to stop it.

Hopeless. He had…never felt so hopeless in his life…and somehow that was far worse than the nightmares and the pain. Another sob escaped him and he closed his eyes, turning his head away from the door that would never open, and resigned himself to wait for the next soldier to be brought before the hangman's noose and die…for trying to make him whole again.

**~Fin~**

* * *

><p><em>Notes from the Author:<em>

Hello, everyone. This is a much shorter piece than I normally write, and certainly it's much darker too. This story was inspired by an actual event that occurred during Civil War, where General Major George E. Pickett captured 53 Union troops the Confederacy had considered traitors, because they had been born or had once served in North Carolina (part of the Confederacy) and ended up fighting for the Union North. What number of the soldiers hadn't died due to appalling conditions in Confederate prisons had been publically hanged for desertion and treason. The execution depicted here was not told from any one specifically named soldier's point of view, but his age is estimated between 17 and 21 years old…

The Civil War is really one, if not the darkest time in America's history…and there really isn't war in America's history (besides Vietnam) that affects me as much as this one does. ): I'm sorry for all the angst…

I hope you all have considered this piece worth the time and emotions it took to read, and I thank you for giving me your time. :)

Sincerely,

_General Kitty Girl_


	9. The Debt Repaid

**~The Debt Repaid~**

He remembered how soft Alfred's hair had been when he'd been a boy. Each strand was so thin and fine, like delicate golden thread that never surrendered an opportunity to catch a breeze and defy gravity. Neither his rebellious cowlick nor his youthful sheen had waned with age…still; it was so different running his hand through it now.

His fingers caught on the blood that matted his golden hair and brushed against the drying wounds that covered the lad's face and scalp. The young man hadn't stirred once since falling unconscious at his feet amidst the burning of his capital, but at least the bleeding had stopped. Now, the very man who had authorized the immolation of America's heart held his body close to his own and continued to gently stroke the young man's hair. When Alfred had been a child this would have calmed him, made him feel safe and help him drift off to sleep. The nightmares would never plague him while in his arms; perhaps the former caregiver in him was just hoping he would sleep so peacefully again.

The knock sounding at the door was barely audible over the storm raging outside, but soon a red-clad soldier hesitantly opened the door and peered inside. Arthur did not raise his head to greet him, but continued looking down at his former son and never ceased his hand's ministrations.

The soldier nervously cleared his throat and entered the small cellar, keeping a hold on the doorknob. "Forgive me s-sir, is there anything you…that you need?"

Arthur was well aware that the man had no actual concern for his needs, but was sent by his commander to check on what the king's emissary was doing with the high profile prisoner taken before the hurricane rolled through. The raging storm had doused the fires of vengeance like a double-edged sword; mercifully sparing what was left of Washington from the fire, while delivering God's wrath over the war both America and the empire had wrought. Now, struggling Americans and British invaders were all taking refuge in the very buildings of the city that had fallen victim to this terrible conflict; the embodiments of the two great opposing nations included.

Arthur had refused to relinquish Alfred since the American had first been brought into the city by the scouts, and he felt no need to explain his reasons to any human who would never understand.

The soldier seemed very uncomfortable in the silence, but soon began curiously looking down at the unconscious man in his superior's arms…wondering what was so exceptional about him.

"Peace! Grant me that and leave," Arthur suddenly snapped, breaking the soldier's focus and making him jump in retreat for the door.

The heavy oak slammed shut and Arthur kept his narrowed eyes on it until he could no longer hear the retreating man's running footsteps. He hadn't realized he had begun holding Alfred tighter when the soldier had penetrated the realm of their temporary sanctuary, and his need to protect the boy had flared.

He gently loosened his grasp again and after a breath hung his head. He was…losing his mind.

What the Americans had done to provoke this mess was unforgivable. Scores of hostiles had crossed the shores of the Great Lakes into Canada and began destroying with abandonment. The Port of Dover, York, and a number of public and private holdings around both areas had been sacked and burned. The economic losses to those regions were not as devastating as they could have been, but worse was the shattered trust of the people in their sovereign's ability to protect them. With the war raging so hotly in Europe, Britain had been unable to pull its forces away to deal with the unrest in North America when it first sparked. Now, with Napoléon dealt with once and for all, all eyes had turned across the Atlantic and the tired, seasoned and furious forces of the British Empire descended upon it.

Directives had reached Arthur and Major General Ross, the man in charge of American ground operations, from both the Governor General of Canada and Rear Admiral Cockburn, who had joined them on this endeavor: "_Deter the enemy from a repetition of outrages against the Empire...You are hereby required and directed to destroy and lay waste to such towns and districts as you may find assailable_". Immediately Ross had asked the avatar which city from the list of Philadelphia, Baltimore and Washington would hurt America the most…

Arthur had answered truthfully, and the results were now crumbled in his arms…and he found himself holding Alfred a little tighter again.

He had known this would happen the moment he and his men set sail for America's shores with eyes focused on Washington. The anger sweeping through the whole of his government and his men echoed in every corner of his being. After the long and bloody war with Napoléon, the soldiers were all looking forward to a period of peace, but the rebellious nation across the sea had denied them with its attack on Canada. York had burned, and with it the flames of retaliation ignited in the battle-hardened veterans returning from France. Arthur too had felt it, and his contempt for America daring to drag him back across the Atlantic after spending so many years trying to forget it had enraged him.

He made a vow that this time America would never again raise arms against the British Empire; he would give the rebellious country a truly terrible wrath to fear and burning Washington had been a part of that plan.

He had accomplished what he had set out to do. America's forces were in disarray; already there were signs of mass confusion and disbelief among the enemy troops. The president and his cabinet had fled, and now all of Washington was not but ashes, smoldering timber, and whatever the storm left behind. His men had celebrated, drinking from the president's chalices and eating from his tables; they had even held a mock congressional session in the very halls of the Capital to condemn the country's center of power to burn. The mission was complete, and when they left the city in the morning they would do so as victors.

But Arthur felt no joy. He felt no accomplishment in what had happened earlier that day. No matter how much his men rejoiced his heart could not sing with them. No triumph resonated within him, and no righteous pleasure lit his soul. He had watched it all emotionlessly all of that day and night until they brought Alfred into the square and dropped him at his feet.

Alfred was broken. He was dying inside and still alive enough to feel every agonizing moment. Such pride, such youth was shattered. His faith in those he had been trying so hard to represent and protect was gone, and with it the last of his will to fight. Alfred was a creature of freedom…an indomitable spirit of hope, idealism and inspiration. To see him like that…

He hadn't been able to hear the dying cheers as he knelt down and took hold of his son's soiled face. He hadn't acknowledged the impregnable silence among the ranks, or Cockburn's incensed demands he surrender the boy. He saw none of the confused and disbelieving looks when he took Alfred's crumbled form against him and wept.

He had killed his boy. Never again would Alfred live with that steadfast innocence, that deep-seeded belief in the people he represented and who had been supposed to defend him. His heart, his now wounded and forever scarred heart, would never beat the same way again, and he had done this. He had forced his incorruptible and beautiful, his foolish and naïve Alfred to grow up.

America's leaders had left their country's heart vulnerable and exposed, and he had taken full advantage of exploiting that. He had done as any warring nation would have done, and the part of him that still loved Alfred so much could not plead for forgiveness enough.

"I dreaded coming here, you know." He spoke softly, still running his fingers through the unconscious American's hair. "I knew this would happen…yet, I still could not have prepared myself for it."

Alfred never stirred; he remained lifeless but for the weak heartbeat and shallow breaths that kept him alive. His skin had finally cooled from its raging temperature before, and now depended on his former caregiver for warmth. The cellar providing refuge was damp and cold, lit only by a few heatless lanterns set on the floor beneath the servant's cot the Englishman had propped himself and his charge upon.

The irony of how much this place reminded him of the last place he had ever spent in what had once been British America did not escape him.

"The last time we met in Paris, you told me you'd become a nation even I would have to admit to being proud of," he continued with a snort. "I regret to inform you lad, you're doing a piss-poor job on that front. Forcing me to drag my arse all the way over here to teach your people some manners is not exactly winning favor with anyone, especially not me or your brother."

Arthur had seen the aftermath of the fighting in Canada firsthand before making the journey south to America. He had seen Matthew and would never forget the look of disbelief and pure indignation on his face. His lands had been invaded, his people defiled and their means of recovery stinted by their livelihoods having been pillaged and destroyed. It was hard enough for people to get by, even in the more fertile Niagara region, and now lives had been ruined and recompense had to be made.

But had Alfred been directly responsible for what had happened? Had he been involved in his politicians' decisions to take aggressions against Canada in retaliation for Britain and France blocking trade and seizing American ships and sailors during their European conflict? Had he given into the sweet words of his politicians promising territory and power denied in times past? Had Alfred really gone back on his word not to retaliate against his brother for choosing loyalty to the crown rather than him?

No. He honestly didn't think the Alfred he killed was capable of that.

"I don't believe you wanted this, lad. However angry you've been with me, I don't believe any of this had been your intent," Arthur began, and gently rubbed his thumb over a streak of dried blood marring the boy's cheek – renewing the skin to its true color. "Humans rule us when we let them, and these are the consequences when selfish and arrogant humans make decisions against better judgment."

Alfred had never been a naturally quiet boy, but he wasn't the loudest when he lacked confidence. Contrary to what most first impressions of Alfred were, when it came to subjects he wasn't familiar with, like dealing with foreign powers and most subjects in politics, he tended to let his insecurities get the best of him. Alfred had never mastered the art of masking his emotions, and that perceived weakness tended to cause others to treat him with caution so as not to overwhelm him, or dismiss him entirely as someone too immature to handle complicated matters. Arthur imagined that the events leading up to the invasion of Canada had been just such occasions, and Alfred's arguments against his leaders had been labeled invalid because no one in his government trusted that his protests were anything more than emotional responses.

Arthur could imagine Alfred's frustration, and the pain that inevitably followed when he would have learned of the assault on Canada. He and his brother had never been on the best of terms, but Alfred wasn't the kind of person who inherently wanted to hurt his own kin, especially over measures he had vetoed. Declaring war was something Alfred had struggled over greatly back in the 1700s, when his people had been trying to sway him towards independence. Arthur hadn't appreciated the depth of that struggle until years after the fact, and when he learned that America had declared war upon his empire yet again…it had been met with more than a fair share of skepticism and anger.

When Alfred had made the decision to stand against him in his revolution, he had done so with the conviction of his entire being – staving off the childish, loyalist part of him that pleaded for surrender. What he had seen here: the lack of personal response from Alfred prior to the events of the previous night, where he seemed to have been trying to personally stop the invasion of Washington without aid from his government…Arthur could see that there was terrible disconnect between avatar and those in command, and this knowledge actually caused him grief.

"I made a terrible mistake in not teaching you everything I could…" he said, closing his eyes as his hand in Alfred's hair finally stilled. "We are forced to obey humans, Alfred…we are bound by our spirits being the collective pulse of our people, and as they swear fealty to a leader or an ideal, so too do we. But Alfred…when those leaders make decisions or those ideals give birth to situations that threaten our people, we have a responsibility to do something. We are a voice, Alfred…"

He paused before he told yet another half-truth, and his hands clenched where they lay on the unconscious form before him. "We are a voice too often forgotten…and you're bearing the brunt of that now."

Arthur could recall so many times in his own history when his leaders had brushed his voice aside for selfish ambitions or out of pure egotism. He was an old soul but his shell did not match it, and this misled many of his leaders to invalidate him in matters of war and state. From his time under Rome until present, he had learned how to play and manipulate the game of politics to his will – but as his will was the will of his people, he seldom felt remorse over doing whatever it took to be heard.

But Alfred…he didn't understand that, he never had. Arthur had seen him fight the will of his people in the years leading up to his War of Independence, faltering many times while trying to suppress the loyalists within him. Even after he had achieved nationhood, Arthur had seen evidence of the divides in America through the eyes of his remaining colony on the continent and through the whispers that filtered through his own government in London. Arthur knew the struggle for unification would be hard on the lad and told him as much when he had tried time and time again to persuade him against breaking away…and so, when the misery he had predicted came to pass, he turned away from America's suffering rather than extend to Alfred the education he should have given him as a boy.

"Behold, the end result of my spiteful choices," Arthur said with a bitter, half-hearted laugh, feeling the self-hatred rise.

Then, slowly, a quiet calm passed over him and he remembered last night as though he had been standing third party to it all. He stood there neither as himself nor the man who had once been the father of the boy collapsed and dying at his feet. He watched the flames of vengeance consume the palaces of America's leadership, as men wearing the colors of his regalia celebrated over the ruins of the United States government. He saw the citizens of the city crying, falling to their knees and grieving at the sight of their beloved home and country burning…at Alfred's heart burning…

The enemy of his empire was burning.

Arthur didn't feel pain welling inside of him at that thought. He knew his nation side was dissociating that which he loved with the enemy he so greatly resented. He could watch Alfred burn so long as he only saw the embodiment of his adversary writhing at his feet. It was a cold and empty feeling settling inside of him, that all too familiar void that had protected him when his humanity got in the way of doing what needed to be done.

He should let go of Alfred now, turn him over to Cockburn and Ross as they wished and walk away. He should have let them order the shackles and armed guards from the beginning and give the young man treatment similar to what he'd been condemned to after the failure of Yorktown. Having Alfred was the greatest bargaining sway to be had against what was left of the American government, and he should be contemplating how to use that to his full advantage before the boy came to.

He could use Alfred to secure America's surrender. This time, he could end the war with a single pen stroke instead of a bullet.

He didn't need Alfred's voice to be heard…all he needed was to show his government that he had bled and would bleed again if British demands were not met.

It was all too perfect. This opportunity was too perfect and the immediate solution to so many things – most importantly of all, getting to finally return home. He was so tired of war and so tired of dealing with foreign powers. He was so sick of the international community and longed for nothing more than a few years of quiet seclusion and peace…real peace…long-term peace.

He remembered that night again and watched himself fall to his knees once more, gathering Alfred up in his arms and sharing the only thing with him he could – the promise that tonight as he suffered, he would not do so alone. He promised to protect him where his human protectors had failed, and return to him the kindness he had shown during those nights he'd been imprisoned in Yorktown.

Alfred had extended his mercy back then in the hopes for an armistice with his mentor, for real peace between them. Alfred's government had indeed used the fact that the British avatar was their prisoner to their advantage, but Alfred had never let harm come to him and had honestly tried to part on good terms. The lad hadn't wanted his childhood caregiver's last memories of him to be…of him as a monster.

Monsters…were incapable of finding peace.

"Alfred…I want you to remember this," His voice was nearly inaudible as the words began to flow. "I blame myself for not giving you the knowledge you so desperately needed…and I blame myself for letting all I loved and cherished about you die last night. Please believe me when I say…that my heart turned to ash and scattered on the pyre of your demise…" he continued, his voice rough, tired, and monotone…but also resigned. "I cannot change that. Last night will never change and neither will the fact that when you wake and see what my men and I have done, you will hate me. You will hate me for my cruelty and your nation will hate me for my kindness, because it is my kindness that will not let me use you as a means to end this war."

He just couldn't do it. He couldn't take away the freedom that Alfred needed to survive anymore than he could serve him before the masses as nothing more than a war trophy. Even if it meant ending this war and going home, such an act would solidify him as the monster the world labeled him to be and he would never find peace. Not with Alfred or America, and not with the world that would condemn him as the man willing to disgrace and murder his own son to bring his enemies to their knees.

He had already killed whatever trust and innocence remained in his tragically ignorant boy. Alfred had learned a most terrible lesson in adulthood, because his father had failed to teach him as a child when the pain would have been nothing beyond a thought.

Another knock at the door sounded, but this time the man who entered wasn't a lowly soldier, but an officer – an attendant to the Major General, himself. "Sir, the storm has passed and Major General Ross has requested your presence. Emissaries from the American president have arrived."

Arthur drew himself up and nodded to the man, replacing his mask as the infamous Lord Arthur Kirkland before addressing him. "Have the emissaries come to discuss terms?"

The officer shook his head. "I do not know, sir, but he seems to know of the prisoner in our custody. They also seemed aware of you."

Arthur contemplated this for a moment, and then let his eyes rest on Alfred…who finally seemed stable enough to move.

"Good."

* * *

><p>The gentlemen stood in the charred remains of the dining hall of the Presidential Palace. The walls that remained were blackened and warped, twisted into curvaceous shapes by infernal heat. The great glass windows had all been shattered, pieces of which had melted into the floor, now covered in mud and stinking of filth. The chandelier was a forlorn casualty among the splinters of the overturned dining table, and the china cabinets had all been toppled and smashed from the work of men and the pieces of the ceiling that had fallen onto them. The portraits of the greatest officials in America's history that had once decorated the room were gone, as though the sorrow of the scene had caused them flee so they would no longer have to watch over such a tragedy.<p>

All three envoys surveyed the damage with gaping mouths and fallen hearts. This…had once been the crowning achievement of America's capital.

Arthur's presence swept the room well before he made his appearance, and all three Americans turned and gave him the full attention his attendance commanded. The Englishman never once glanced at the ruins around him and instead focused on the men trying hard to fight the mixtures of fear and rage that were so easy to read in their body language. They were politicians here with a purpose, and forgetting that would cost them what little of this situation they could salvage.

Arthur wasn't going to let them forget that.

"Lord Kirkland, I've come on behalf of President James Madison to – "

"Save your words, I know what and _who_ you've come for; but he will not be returned to you until my words are returned to your president."

The three emissaries looked unsettled, one of them looked even more enraged, but the man doing the talking swallowed and nodded – allowing for Arthur to continue.

"I want your president to remember that when he took an oath to protect and defend the people and lands of this country, that also meant he swore to safeguard his nation's living representation. The decisions made by those burdened with the fate of this nation are reflected in its embodiment; and your poor decisions have brought about this destruction and his."

Arthur could feel the ire rising from each man standing before him, recusing him as a foreigner daring to lecture them and their president on the responsibilities of the government. But Arthur was far more qualified then they could ever know, and his anger was far greater then theirs could ever be.

"The dissention in your administration had never been clearer then when encountering nothing more then a hastily thrown together lot of poorly instructed volunteers to defend this city. That when we arrived and the only occupants left had been your own citizens is a disgrace of the highest caliber," he continued, his tone with the icy thickness of aversion. "You condemned the heart of your own nation, and its people to burn."

The youngest of the group, a man in the back, stepped forward, unable to contain his outrage any longer. "How dare you barbarians even consider treating this negotiation like some kind of allocution. You monsters should be the ones on trial here, look at what you bastards have done!"

Though it was clear his associates were in agreement with his sentiment, the men flanking him quickly moved to silence the man, as he continued to glare red-faced and accusingly at the British redcoat standing upon the vestiges of their once proud palace.

Arthur never once flinched, in fact, he began advancing.

"This isn't an allocution, this is an arraignment of you and your president for neglecting your duties. Your guilt is not in question, and the sentence for your crimes should be nothing short of being thrown upon these timbers and made to suffer every moment of pain you forced your nation to suffer for your arrogance," Arthur lashed out, not bothering to bridle his fury as the humans stared at him in trepidation. "I have seen history as it has been made and chronicled, and rest assure that this, gentlemen, is your history being made and will never be forgotten. You have stained the pages of your country with this neglect and it will forever define you. No matter what you accomplish after this, no matter your deeds or victories, this _failure_ is eternally your shameful _legacy_."

Arthur loomed over them now, men who once stood taller than him and now stood on unsteady legs with astonishment painted on their faces. The pause Arthur allowed was not for them to collect themselves, but to prove to them that even when the moment to refute his words was given they could not. The truth in all that he said could not be denied and now that they knew that, he was finished with them.

"The only man allowed to collect Alfred Jones will be the man who failed him the most. You tell your president that, and then let him decide who that responsibility falls to."

Having said all he needed to, Arthur turned on heel and dismissed the men without a word. He cared not for any one of them now, only that they serve their purpose in delivering his message and be removed from any position of power where they might hurt Alfred again.

* * *

><p>That evening, the army finalized their preparations to depart Washington and began filing in for the march north. Major General Ross and Rear Admiral Cockburn were waiting outside on their horses, and Cockburn was especially impatient to move on. The Rear Admiral had been completely against Arthur being allowed the final say on the fate of the most coveted prisoner in the war. Cockburn had been determined to take Alfred back to the ships to be held to further negotiations with the Americans, but Ross had stoically kept his silence and left Arthur to his own devices – tending to personal matters that he wished would move along faster too.<p>

The Englishman had taken Alfred to one of the few remaining houses in the city and laid him down in one of the few dry beds left in the city. The lad still hadn't woken up, but Arthur gauged that it wouldn't be long before his body recovered…his heart, however…

His hand combed through the lad's hair one last time before he leaned down and kissed his forehead. "Goodbye, Alfred. At least in this, we're even now."

He withdrew, forcing himself not to linger, and replaced his regimental bicorne before leaving the house and Alfred behind. Neither Ross nor Cockburn so much as looked at him as he mounted his horse and took position beside them, and immediately the word was given to move out.

**~Fin~**

* * *

><p><em>Notes from the Author<em>:

Hello and thank you all for reading my story above. This long, long awaited fic is a request for **Cayran**, who asked for a fic that focuses on the father-son relationship between Arthur and Alfred. In the "NYH" universe this fic ties into the flashback scene from chapter 21 of the main story, the scene having been the events leading up to the burning of Washington from Alfred's point of view. I choose this particular historical event to focus on because its one of the most pivotal in the establishment of the more modern relationship between Arthur and Alfred, in that Arthur is still fighting over having to let go and Alfred is still struggling to figure out his place as a nation and within his place within his own government. This is one of Arthur's more silent post-Revolution fatherly moments and one Alfred isn't aware happened. It is very true that the burning of Washington ignited an already burning power keg of animosity against the British, and when Alfred does wake up from this event and sees what happened his thoughts of peace go out the window for a long, long time. It really is a vicious cycle of love, hate, and peace between the U.S. and Britain; historically and presently speaking, we are never _truly_ indifferent to one another.

As always, I greatly thank my amazing Beta Editor, **Acqua-Toffana**, for never letting me down and always keeping me at my best. :')

TO THE NOTES!

-In case you were wondering about the wounds Alfred has sustained prior to this story, in the flashback scene from chapter 21 it detailed how Alfred had been thrown from his horse en route to Washington. He had been badly hurt in the incident, and the events in Washington were only making that worse.

-The War of 1812, as it became known, between the United State of America and the British Empire was sparked by a number of transgressions, but greatest of all dealt with the stinting of trade by Britain, France and their allies during the Napoleon conflicts, impressment (seizure of foreign vessels and forcing non-citizen sailors to service in the Royal Navy), and territorial disputes in North America between the U.S., Canada, and multiple British backed Native American tribes. Relations between America and Canada, which had remained stressed since the Revolution, exploded when the U.S. invaded Canada and burned the Port of Dover, York and private holdings around both. With Britain busy fighting in the Napoleonic Wars in Europe until 1814, Canada was left with little support and largely had to fend for itself for two years. When the British finally did arrive in force they hit far faster and harder than they had initially during the Revolutionary War, and to be frank most Americans had been unprepared for this new Post-Napoleonic army. Though the war concluded with a treaty returning many of the seized territories and relations between the U.S. and the British Empire finally seemed to have achieved lasting peace, the war itself was a bitter thing and, for the most part, something most Americans and Brits consider a "forgotten war".

-Major General Robert Ross: aggressive, brave, and led at the head of his army. He was in charge of ground forces operating in America during the War of 1812. Ross was one of the few well-known and respected Anglo-Irish officers in the English military, and a highly educated man. He was a veteran of several military campaigns, including the Peninsula Wars during the Napoleonic Wars (where France and a French occupied Spain invaded Portugal, causing Britain retaliated in defense of its long-standing ally). Ross's career is filled with many achievements and accolades, making him one of the greatest military figures in British history…however, in America, the infamous invasion and burning of Washington leaves him and Rear Admiral George Cockburn on of the most known antagonists of the War of 1812. Regardless of one's reactions to 1812, it cannot be denied that Ross was a brilliant strategist and a force to be reckoned with. Cockburn, too, is a formidable historical figure and prominent in British history; but if there is one person loathed more than Ross for actions taken during the War of 1812, its Cockburn, who had been labeled "The Ruffian" by the American press.

-"_Deter the enemy from a repetition of outrages against the Empire [...] You are hereby required and directed to destroy and lay waste to such towns and districts as you may find assailable_". This is actually a quote from the orders sent by Rear Admiral George Cockburn after the Governor General of the Canadian colonies, Sir George Prévost, sent demands for retaliation against America for acts against Canadian citizens and property during the above mentioned invasion.

-Now, to the actual invasion itself…There is a lot of speculation and controversy surrounding what led up to the events that unfolded, but more so over who is to blame for the dissention and failure that brought about the greatest military embarrassment in American history. Communication between Intel on the ground and military commanders in Washington was weak and often contradicting, and between the conflicts waging on multiple fronts (Canada, New England, and the slowly forming Gulf struggles) there was little cohesion between the military branches. By the time word of the British routing the American naval defenders in the Chesapeake and the ground march towards the capital had begun, the larger, more experienced American ground soldiers who might have stood a chance against the British had been too far away to recall. A hastily assembled group of troops had been brought together to make stand at Bladensburg, that had resulted in and absolute collapse of defense for Washington. Citizens, the president and government officials had been evacuated, one of the last being the widely beloved and respected First Lady, who had refused to leave until priceless relics had been removed from danger or hidden from the oncoming invasion. On August 24th, 1814, the British had entered Washington and proceeded to ransack and burn it. In retaliation for the burning of Parliament in York, Canada, the British staged a mock session in America's capitol and voted to burn it to the ground for crimes against the Crown. The White House (called the Presidential Palace, then) was the last destroyed…British soldiers toasted, drank and ate at the set dinning room table left in the haste of the evacuation, and the building was looted and burned. To this day, this event remains one of the blackest days in American history.

-On the night of the burning the weather had begun to change for the worst, and the following day a massive hurricane struck. Though the brunt of the storm only lasted about two hours, there were reports of torrential rains, winds and even a tornado that touched down in the city limits. The storm had caught pretty much everyone by surprise, and regardless of nationality everyone was send scrambling for shelter. The British unit returned to Benedict, Maryland the following day, and President Madison and the First Lady return on the day after. The day of his return, Madison spent his time riding through the city surveying the damage and rallying citizens and the arriving troops who had been too late to stop the invasion, to stay strong and fight.

I hope you all have enjoyed this fic, and most of all I hope this fulfills the request **Cayran** had asked of me long ago. I am so sorry this has taken so long and I apologize to the several requesters still waiting for my next list to go up. I will be focusing on the next "NYH" chapters for a while and this will slow the production of my shorts, and as always I thank you all for your patience. Thank you to all of my readers, subscribers and reviewers – you all are beyond fantastic and I cannot thank you enough for all of your faith and encouragement! My best to you all. :')

Sincerely,

_General Kitty Girl_


	10. Earl Grey & Ashen Rose

**[WARNING: This fic is rated "MA" for mature audiences/adult only, and contains scenes of rough intercourse and explicate yaoi.**

**Please refrain from reading if any of these contents trouble or offend you. **

**I thank you for ****your maturity and respect.]**

**~Earl Grey & Ashen Rose~**

The aftertaste of Earl Grey and cream. The flavor invoked memories of his youth; times spent lying in a garden and ignoring the accumulation of filth on his clothes, watching the sky through a canopy of swaying trees, and longing to have the person he loved most back in his home and sharing tea and stories with him. He loved listening to the Englishman's anecdotes, if not for tales of his adventures then just to hear his voice.

Arthur's voice was as addicting as his taste; it was a voice that inspired fear, respect, and obedience, and a taste…that inspired rebellion.

The hand that grabbed his tie and drew him into a heated kiss had since removed the black silk garment and was making its way down the buttons of his shirt. Alfred had been taken off guard by the suddenness of it all, but he knew that had been the Englishman's plan. Where he had once been standing he was now shoved back into his conference chair, his mouth still locked on that skilled cavern sealed over his, and a warm weight settled onto his lap. His hands automatically found their way to green clad hips before they ground down on a rather sensitive part of his anatomy, making him moan. He felt a purr vibrate down the foreign muscle in his mouth and nearly had the urge to bite it. Arthur was enjoying the dominating position a little too much.

That taste was spurring him ever closer towards knocking his former master off his throne.

Finally, Arthur returned his right to breath and trailed his lips down to the fluttering pulse at the side of his lover's neck, making the blue-eyed blond tense when a flash of teeth grazed the vulnerable site. Arthur loved leaving marks, especially visible ones to show the entire world what belonged to him. What had once been flags bearing his claim to territory were now his personal grace of nails and teeth upon flesh. He knew Alfred never liked it, as Alfred's reason for declaring independence was to be his own person with no ownership of any kind above his head; yet the temptation and the drive was always too much for the Brit to resist.

The most powerful country in the world, what had once been his and only his was his alone again. He wanted to prove it to the world…and himself, every chance he got.

And the need to rebel rose again.

Without warning, Alfred's grip on Arthur's waist tightened again, but this time to a painful degree. In seconds he effortlessly lifted Arthur up and drove him back onto the conference table. The Englishman's back hit hard, but he seemed more annoyed than hurt, as Alfred's hands remained on his hips and his body between the legs of the Brit's now prone body. The American looked down at him with a defiant expression, his sky-blue eyes darkened to a shade worthy of the midnight sea, and without warning he took his turn to slam his own pelvis against Arthur's sensitive region.

However much Arthur tried to fight it, his breath hitched and his body arched towards the man above him. Alfred's taste for Arthur was addictive, but Alfred's power was absolute entrapment to Arthur.

Alfred let go of the other only long enough to shrug out of the jacket and shirt his lover had so kindly undone, and without a word he made short work of returning the favor. The man on the table was smaller in height and build than his companion; Arthur was trim and lithe in masculine sense, maintaining all the defined lines of a man who had served his time in hell and returned a little thinner, but stronger after each trial. His features were sharp, from the angles of his face to the slightly reddened jut of his hips. He lacked feminine curves most men found attractive in a partner, but Alfred found nothing imperfect in the man beneath him.

Arthur wasn't beautiful, but the attraction was impossible to ignore.

Their torsos bare, Alfred bent down and pressed himself fully against Arthur, sealing his mouth in another rough kiss, as his hands arrested the Englishman's wrists to divest him of his gloves. Arthur didn't seem to like that at all, and Alfred knew he wouldn't; the American knew his lover hated the feeling of being captured in any way, but this was revenge for the attempted bite.

Arthur began to writhe beneath him as the kiss turned even more aggressive, the Englishman even wrapping his legs around Alfred's waist to the point of pain. This was Arthur putting up a fight, and now it was Alfred's turn to purr.

It was enough to trigger Arthur's true spirit of retaliation.

As the man on top of him released his hands to slide them down to his trousers, unclasping the buckle before unbuttoning them, Arthur reared his arms back and struck Alfred hard and fast in the chest. The American was stunned, especially when the force of the blow made him want to collapse backwards, but the legs around his waist held him in place. Narrowed green eyes paralyzed him seconds before another shove reversed their positions – Alfred's head slamming back against the table with a bang.

While Alfred continued to work through the sudden feelings of pain, surprise, and the panic that would soon rise when he realized his position, Arthur felt a devilishly warm rise of triumph fill him, as he settled atop Alfred's body. A cheshire smile lit his face, as he began to tauntingly roll his hips over Alfred's half masted arousal. It certainly got Alfred's attention when Arthur leaned down, just keeping their chests and lips from touching, and pressed his hands hard against Alfred's splayed biceps. With the American effectively pinned and his continued stimulation of the prone man's vital regions, Arthur felt the lad's punishment ought to be sealed as it started…

Bypassing the opportunity to kiss that deliciously swollen mouth making such enticing sounds, Arthur returned to Alfred's neck and gave the skin above the American's jugular a lick.

Then bit down.

Alfred gasped before locking his jaw shut and releasing a straggled growl. His body immediately bucked, but Arthur had anticipated it and rode out the motion, as he remained locked on Alfred's skin a moment longer. When the growl deepened to the point Arthur felt it echo in his chest, Arthur released the now bleeding skin with another lick and sat up on Alfred…careful to keep the other's biceps pinned.

He grinned with American blood smeared on his lips.

All Alfred could see was red.

In a burst of strength, Alfred bucked Arthur not up but forward, and surprised the Englishman. Arthur fell off balance over him and lost his grip on his arms. Alfred used his new found freedom to wrap around the Brit's torso, as he rolled them into their original position with Arthur on his back beneath him. Alfred wasn't lenient in sparing Arthur from being forced to endure his greater weight before the American pushed himself off and stood at the edge of the table between Arthur's legs.

He wasted no time in removing the other's boots and yanking his trousers off, fully exposing the breathless Englishman.

Arthur had enough of his retaliatory spark left to glare up at the American, but the cold look of barely restrained anger on Alfred's face kept it at that.

Green eyes watched as a slightly tanned right hand traveled up to the still bleeding neck where he'd left his mark. His claim on his America. His defiant look reiterated that he felt no remorse over it, and when dark blue eyes moved from his blood stained hand to equally dark green eyes…

Arthur knew he had set Alfred on a mission to make him regret it.

Without a word, Alfred grabbed one of Arthur's pale legs and used it to jerked him right up against his still clothed arousal, forcing Arthur to wince and notice the newly risen hardness between Alfred's legs. With his bloody hand, Alfred reached towards Arthur's mouth and unkindly wiped away a blood trail from the corner of his lips. Never moving his eyes from the other's, Alfred roughly spread Arthur's legs before lifting his lower half higher with his left hand on the Brit's lower back. Arthur remained tight-lipped and ignored the fluttering in his stomach just before the blood covered fingers breeched his entrance.

Arthur threw his head back, squeezing his eyes shut, as he gripped the desk with clawed hands. Sharp pain tore through him as not one, but two fingers plunged into his unready body and caught on the tender skin inside. He swallowed thickly, fighting back the urge to scream or demand that Alfred stop. Alfred was rough and used the worst possible lubricant for the act, but in truth this was still merciful to just going forward with no preparation at all. The Englishman knew from centuries of experience that this would be easier if he just relaxed, but the moment he had begun to do so Alfred shoved another finger with only coagulated blood on it into his body. His face contorted in absolute pain and he felt a burning sensation behind his eyes.

He felt an immediate piercing jolt of agony shoot up his spine and knew Alfred had torn something. His stomach twisted and he could no longer hold back the straggled sound of pain that escaped his throat.

All at once the motions inside of him froze. Slowly, Arthur's eyes slid open and he found Alfred paused above him, still holding his lower body in position, and watching him with an unreadable expression. The moment was suspended, and Arthur thought Alfred might have lost the will to continue before he felt those fingers withdraw, the sound of clothes rustling, and something larger than the fingers pressed up against his abused orifice.

He closed his eyes again and braced before he felt the weight over him shift and lips pressed against his own.

Compared to their other kisses up to this point, this one was tamer, kinder, and asked permission before sharing a taste of the other. Alfred's tongue still dominated, but there was a gentler promise in the brief tenderness that Arthur took to heart…

Arthur's body was complacent and relaxed, and once Alfred had his taste of Earl Grey and cream his hips surged forward and didn't stop until they made contact with Arthur's upraised rear.

Arthur bulked and tensed immediately around the intrusion, feeling more of his blood flowing to unnaturally lubricate the invading length. With his mouth still covered by Alfred's he could barely breathe, let alone speak, as Alfred withdrew and then slammed back inside of him.

It hurt. God, it hurt. When Alfred finally released him from the kiss and grabbed his hips to make the trusts harder, the Englishman gasped and found he couldn't get enough air into his lungs. Sweat poured down his face and body, making his skin slicker; it also caused the dried blood on Alfred's right hand to rehydrate and leave smears on his hip. He cried out when Alfred's nails scrapped his skin the moment a particular angle sent a stab of pain through him, and Arthur decided enough was enough.

He let Alfred get away with leveling the playing field after Arthur took the greatest guilty pleasure he found in being with the American, but now Arthur more than considered them even and all else was breaking the unspoken rules of the game.

Arthur let go of the table and grabbed Alfred's shoulders, preparing to return his advantage when another angle change slammed home in a place that made him scream – for an entirely different reason than before. Alfred translated it immediately and tightened his grip on Arthur's waist to hold him still as he pounded into the area relentlessly. There was no true rhythm to the action, but Arthur couldn't find the will to criticize technique when he was in the midst of experiencing such staggering pleasure. He nearly forgot his original plan to get the final up on Alfred…

Almost, but not quite.

As the incredible heat began to build in his abdomen, quickly rushing south and signaling his end, Arthur wrapped his left arm behind Alfred's neck and forced him down into a fierce kiss. The younger male was thrown enough to falter in his grip and movements before Arthur wrapped his legs tightly around his waist again, yanking him fully into and against his body (nearly causing him to loose it right there), and rolled them both over with his right arm. The push took a lot of strength on his part, but it was worth it as Alfred – his dear lustful and bewildered Alfred – was now beneath him with his neck and mark exposed to his lover above him.

Though Alfred's length was still inside his body, Arthur felt like a conqueror again.

As Alfred's expression darkened, Arthur rolled his hips and caused them both to moan. They were both close, and Arthur could feel the mixture of hot blood and pre-cum seeping from him and coating Alfred's body below. Though it had been painful, the thought that the blood was a mix of both of theirs was highly arousing.

Arthur set up a rhythm worthy of someone with his experience, purposely keeping Alfred pleasured and teetering on that maddening edge, as the lack of extreme physical exertion and control on the American's part kept the lad from climaxing. Arthur loved the rough and wild sex as much as Alfred (minus a few rather agonizing moments), but having this control over his lover just did so much more for him.

Alfred's impatience was showing. His eyes were darkening again and all at once he grabbed Arthur's hips in an attempt to move him faster, but Arthur had fought hard for his control and was not about to give it up for anything. As Alfred lifted the Englishman's hips to thrust into him, Arthur reached down, grabbed him by the neck and yanked him into a sitting position before crushing his lips to his. When surprise once again caused Alfred to loose his grip, Arthur sped up his pace on his own and heard Alfred moan against him. The lad was so lost in the sensations of his lover riding him that he missed the fact that Arthur's lips were trailing to the unmarked side of his neck.

Arthur flicked his tongue out and licked over the virgin skin, then clenched around Alfred's member as the American cried out and released inside of him. Alfred orgasmed hard, but not as hard as Arthur when he bit down on his lover's neck once again, and came between them.

The taste of pure vanilla and ashen rose. The perfect blend of the duel kinds of love he forever held for Alfred.

* * *

><p>"You're an ass."<p>

Arthur released a closed lipped sigh, but otherwise did not move from his comfortable position wrapped around Alfred, near completely asleep against him. "While I rather enjoy compliments, perhaps you could give them to me in the morning…"

His lover snorted and moved a hand from where it had been resting on the small of the Englishman's back, and gingerly fingered his extremely reddened neck. He hissed upon touching the tender skin and Arthur knew he was getting a blue-eyed glare…the thought making him grin, as he pressed more of his face against Alfred's chest.

"Twice? Not once, but twice? You know I hate that."

"You'll heal." _Pity_.

"Yeah, but something about your bites takes for-freaking-ever to heal. It's like you curse them or something!"

Arthur chuckled and gave Alfred a gentle kiss on the pectoral, "Now don't be silly, you know I would never curse you." _With anything potentially life threatening…and a little love bite is hardly life threatening…_

It earned him another snort, but at least this time Alfred settled down and returned to holding Arthur again in silence; which pleased the Brit, as he felt his exhausted body coaxing him to sleep once more.

He would have fallen into blissful slumber too…

"You know Elizabeta's going to hound me about the marks…again."

Arthur gave a sound of exasperation and pulled his head back enough to look up at Alfred and let him know just how little he cared. "If you're so concerned about people thinking you're the one who takes it up the arse, then perhaps we should take turns and lessen your burden of having to deny it all the time."

The recoil expression was enough to tell Arthur his younger lover was less than ready for that step. Alfred had a most unreasonable fear of bottoming, usually because of the rare rougher episodes of sex like last night that lead to pain and blood…mostly on Arthur's end.

While Arthur admitted he was a bit masochistic, Alfred was about the furthest thing from it.

"I didn't think so," The Brit muttered, and resumed his place against Alfred – determined to get some rest before they were forced to get up in a few hours, clean up the mess, and pretend this never happened outside of their bedroom.

Several moments in darkness and silence were enough for Arthur to forget he was still covered in blood, sweat, and semen, lying on the Austrian World Conference Table, and without any semblance of clothing…while Alfred at least retained his trousers.

And then that mouth...

"You don't think there are cameras in here, do you?"

"…"

**~Fin~**

* * *

><p><em>Notes from the Author<em>:

Hello, everyone~ It has been a while since I last posted something, so I decided to finally debut this gift fic (dedicated to and written for the most amazing _Spaingary_/Beta/Captain ever - **Acqua_Toffana**) that I published other my other pen here on and my official Tumblr. I do not often write yaoi and/or sexually explicate, but occasionally I will when requested by or dedicated to a friend. ^^; I hope you all have enjoyed this and know that I promise to return to finishing the next chapter in "Never Your Hero" and my other NYH!Universe fics soon. Until next time!

Sincerely,

_General Kitty Girl_


	11. My Sacrifice

**[WARNING: This fic is rated "M" for mature and contains scenes of yaoi and angst.**

**Please refrain from reading if any of these contents trouble or offend you. I thank you for**

**your maturity and respect.]**

**~Beloved Sacrifice~**

The rain pouring down upon my face is so much softer than that memory; but just like then, the tears streaming from the corners of my eyes are entirely your fault. It hurts, the physical pain, but it's negligible compared to what I felt that day – the day I lost you. The gasps escaping me are less embarrassing than the sobs of old, but your face now as then still looks guilt ridden from the sounds.

It's your apologetic kisses that mean more to me than your hands trying to distract me from your act between my legs.

It's a slow pace, but then again it always is. Even then you seemed to hate causing me unnecessary pain – only doing what was absolutely necessary to fulfill your duty and see the goals of your need for freedom met with the least amount of casualties. I never came to appreciate that you considered me among the reluctantly sacrificed casualties until much later in life…but it was not until later still that I realized how much that too meant to me.

My most precious treasure, then as you are today; how much I missed holding you so protectively in my arms and keeping you all to myself. I couldn't continue to do that after you broke away, not until we could come together as we do now…

Not until we were both old enough to use this as an excuse.

Never would I have sullied you as a child, nor would I have let a soul defile you. But now you are older and I knew you were not untouched when this affair began…It is all I can do now to keep you to myself and ensure you are never touched by unworthy hands again.

You could not imagine my joy when you said you would wish it no other way.

Its not about the act for me, it never is. It's in the moments leading up to and after it I cherish most. It's your warm and devious smiles, your tender touches and kind words. It's your need for closeness that nearly matches mine, and how it all gives me the chance to hold you again without fear. I didn't need permission to hold you once, but your independence now means I do. Some part of me still mourns that, that I need an excuse like this to embrace you again; but the part of me that's moved on is content. When the primal need arises I no longer look to others for this kind of intimacy. I only need to look for you and you are always there….just as you were then, but in a much different capacity now.

So I take the pain, the discomfort, your inexperience and need for growth because I want no one else to have these precious moments with you. They don't deserve any part of you. Our history runs deeper than any other person in your life, and my happiness only runs the whole of your existence. Feeling you in my arms is a joy I thought I'd never experience again, and the tears are as much from happiness as they are from pain. The sweat between us makes it hard to keep a grip on your constantly moving body, but it's worth the struggle just to keep you close. You're inside me in a more literal way these days, but it is still my heart you penetrate the deepest and give me the most pleasure.

I want to tell you that the most when you finish before I do, and shame paints your face as more apologetic kisses rain down. It touches me how much you care, even when I don't, and again your kisses mean so much more than your hand bringing me to physical completion.

And that's all it is, my love. It is the sating of so much more than my body I crave.

The warmth encompassed in your arms makes all the pain a distant memory. It's quiet and safe here. There is no independence, no rebellion or war. You need me as much as I need you, and its only centuries later in this silent moment we can admit that. It feels so good to be needed again: to have my arms needed to hold you, my hands to steady you and my heartbeat to give you something to fall asleep to. In this moment you're not the boy I raised any more than you are the young man who renounced me. You are my ally, my lover, and my friend. You are my dependent as I am yours. You are the comrade I needed when the world turned to chaos, as I am your last remaining companion in this time of so called peace. But overall…

You are my beloved Alfred, and you are home.

**~Fin~**

* * *

><p><em>Notes from the Author<em>:

I had actually first published this fic under another pen name because I was too embarrassed with my shoddy ability to write romance and smut. However, in light of the recent encouragement and feedback I've received over the past few months has given me the courage to make this public under my primary pen. This was written for and dedicated to VictoriaWings – fellow USUK enthusiast, cosplay partner and friend. I am happy to say that she was very pleased with this fic (which has no attachment to the "NYH" storyline - though I know I have a lot of readers who ship them in my universe) and I hope you all who read this enjoyed it too.

All my best~

Sincerely,

_General Kitty Girl_


	12. Memorial (Cardverse)

**~Memorial~**

(_USUK Cardverse_)

It was rhythmic and annoying, the constant poke of the needle and slide of the thread. What Arthur had always found to be a soothing activity was grating to Alfred's ears. It would make him frown and complain every time, just as Arthur always made a fuss when Alfred bit his nails or ceaselessly drummed his fingers when he was nervous.

But with years of marriage had come trials in temperance. The sharp comments and aggravated frowns at the beginning of their relationship had turned to gentle hands silently moving to preoccupy anxious ones. It had become a habit of muscle memory, yet Alfred's hand would not rise to its task anymore…

"You lost a love for that long ago," Alfred began, "What's troubling you?"

The amused little huff made him smile a little, but hands still waiting to be stopped continued cross stitching into canvas. "Tis nothing but boredom this time, my love. You're certainly not doing anything to keep me entertained, so I am forced to undertake the labor myself."

His smile broadened and a sound of contentment escaped him, "Forgive me, I never had your natural prowess as a host."

"I daresay not. Were you more yourself, I'd likely be screaming in terror upon the back of some beast whilst you hunt creatures with names longer than my arm," Arthur muttered bitterly. "There's a reason we all made sure _you_ were never the one bored."

Alfred could have said that a bored Arthur would sometimes prove just as hazardous, but he wisely held his tongue and enjoyed his beloved's company. After all…it had been a while. "I missed you."

Arthur gave a despondent sigh without ever stopping his hands. "I know, my love. Though you never lacked the company of those trying to warm a place at your side, I know you kept my throne sacred."

He swallowed hard at that, trying not to let emotion steal his ability to speak; not now when he finally had a reason to again. "I wish we had had heirs…this kingdom truly goes to hell without someone like you running it."

"Ah, so you finally admit it," Arthur chided and Alfred heard him recross his legs, as he continued his stitching. "I always said your crown looked better on me anyway."

The old tease between them made him smile again, but he lost the battle with his tears and they fell freely. He wanted to apologize but his throat was too constricted and all he managed was a sob. Arthur had been the only person he ever allowed himself to cry before, as only Arthur would see him as a man in pain instead of a weak king.

Neither of them had had a choice about their union. Neither of them had had a choice about their roles or burdens forced upon them. In the beginning they had both resented their fates and each other, with Arthur constantly encroaching on the roles of the king and Alfred only exercising his prerogative to do as he pleased as far from any palace as possible. The friction between them and their courts grew to a fevered pitch and only war had brought it all to heel.

He remembered that time…when he had finally become the king he had been born to be and the person supporting him most had been the queen he had recklessly taken for granted. They had shared the same bed for years but hadn't known who the other was until they'd been on the verge of loosing everything.

In the subsequent reconstruction, Alfred found that he'd been grateful to his enemies, as every day since their invasion sat beside him the best friend and lover he had almost never known. Their kingdom and people prospered, just as their relationship did. They reigned for years under Alfred's strength and Arthur's wisdom. Crises were momentary and war became legend; it was a golden age of peace.

A peace that continued on without him.

His eyes opened and his head turned towards the sensation of a hand in his. It was warm and familiar, an instant comfort he had been so long without, yet longed for endlessly. He let the feeling linger in the quiet, and only just managed the strength to bring his other hand atop his queen's…and cried again.

He didn't need the excuse of being blind to know no one was there, as no one had been for the loneliest ten years of his twilight.

**~Fin~**

* * *

><p><em>Notes from the Author<em>:

I wrote this a while ago and released it to the "365 Days of USUK" calendar project for publication. :) As it has had its day on the calendar, I thought it'd be okay to not keep it in my dusty folders any longer and release it here too to promote the project.

Please visit the "365 Days of USUK" calendar project on tumblr for more fics from me and other AMAZING writers in the fandom!

_Sincerely,_

_General Kitty Girl / Kelbora_


	13. One (Sweet Devil)

**~One~**

(_USUK Sweetdevil_)

Blood was so fascinating to him. The liquid genetic memory that sustained life continued pouring out of him and all he could do was stare in wonder. It was so warm, this crimson sap of humanity…it could keep a human body going for decades and power the endless complexities of its mind. For a being sustained on the cast off sorrows and pains of others, essentially the fumes of mankind's despair…it was so wonderful to finally have substance. To be thawed without needing the touch of hellfire against his skin.

This death was so…beautiful.

"If only you had obeyed the man could have been spared, you selfish _monster_!"

His glacier blue eyes glowed with the power of his demonic-spirit so close to the surface of this mortal shell, and looked up to behold the man whose sword kept him staked to the base of the dais. The power of heavenly steel kept him trapped within the body he'd possessed to walk the earth…though it would also take the life of his vessel in turn. It was trivial, really.

Though the furious seraph, the underling of St. Michael before him, was not so inconsequential.

However much the angel continued to lash him with his angry words, the ensnared demon decided to spend his last moments marveling his executioner. His hair looked as though his halo had turned to spun silk above his head to crown such a flawless face. His eyes were the color of life's natural zenith, the spring the demon had actually absconded from hell to appreciate. Autumn fell in a myriad of gold and yellow over his body, as though God Himself had taken the season and fashioned earthly armor to shelter His beloved soldier. His skin was winter, white like Christmas snow and tinged with the Yule sunrise that colored him red with emotion.

It was ironic to him that the embodiment of the all he'd ever longed to see in existence was in this angel. The dream he'd yearned to live since waking beneath the Devil's altar; to be human and live beneath a sky and not a ceiling of earth, to see the world ever changing around him, while God's breathes and tears created _sensation_ upon his skin…

It was all he wanted, it was everything to him…and now his last chance was growing cold at the feet of a weeping crucifix in Boston.

Everything was quiet before he realized his angel was kneeling over him, his hands on the hilt of the sword in his gut and eyes locked onto his…faltering.

"You're crying," he stated, as though afraid of his own words voicing something blasphemous.

The demon lifted a bloodstained hand from his wound to his face and felt evidence of this truth. Tears were indeed falling and he smiled, "I've…always wondered what that would be like."

The angel stilled again and the demon felt the other's indecision as tangibly as his body heat, which was so warm…his own dying body ached for it. "You're a demon…demons don't cry. Who are you?"

_Who are you_?

_I wish I knew_…

Darkening blue eyes found spring again and all at once he calmed and stared once more in wonder.

God so loved His angels that He gave them flesh when performing His will on earth. This body before him was beautiful, strong…and mortal…

The Devil so hated this world he gave his demons the power to invade and corrupt life. Any life.

This life.

His hand covered in tears and blood, his muscles straining to reach out and touch that flawless face (which surprisingly did not pull away) rested against the other's cheek and for the first time in his life…there was peace.

And a jealousy that would cower the Devil himself.

"I am you."

Claws erupted from his once human nails and latched into that angelic skin. The seraph gasped then screamed, but not even the burning holy water he bled could change the demon's course, as he jerked the angel forward into a searing kiss. The demon's free hand arrested the other's arm but not before the sword was wretched from his mortal vessel and repositioned to stab his heart.

The blade never finished its purpose, as the angel was suddenly paralyzed – and no longer alone in its own mind.

The seraph shrieked and fell onto his back, crying out with only his echoes in the vaulted ceiling above to respond. He convulsed and seized, tearing at his own skin and demanding that this terrible darkness invading his soul leave. He could feel inhuman hands wrapping around his heart, digging talons into the muscle and now controlling each beat on a whim. It was through these means that he felt himself growing weaker and weaker. He could hear the beats in his head becoming lethargic…and finally stopping.

He stared unseeingly up at the night sky through stained glass…stagnant…and cold.

The first thump was faint; the second was just as so…then a third and soon a steady succession. His eyes blinked once…twice…then opened fully and he could see St. Peter's likeness staring back. The church was so quiet but for his heart beat and soon the clink of his armor, as he pushed himself up and sat back on his haunches. He looked at his hands, turning them over and back, seeing them barely soiled and…so much smaller than his last.

As he stood, he looked down at his growing shadow in the candlelight and a smile spread across his face.

"Arthur…that's your name, right?" he whispered to the darkness and beheld the twisted hybrid of his new feathered silhouette. "We're beautiful together, you and I…the horns your halo rests upon look just right for you."

**~Fin~**

* * *

><p><em>Notes from the Author<em>:

This is another fic from my folders I released to the "365 Days of USUK" calendar project. :) Please see the tumblr page for the project (under the same name) for more fics from me and other writers in the fandom!

As for this fic...

The response to it has been very positive and I've actually grown fonder of it as time passes. Many have asked if I will expand on this ficlet and make a story out of it...and if I do, please have it USUK. ;) Wouldn't have it any other way, my darlin's~

_Sincerely,_

_General Kitty Girl_


	14. Existent

**~Existent~**

Comfortable. It was a simple word that he had never much cared for, but perhaps the best word for describing his present life. He could be honest in saying he had lived in both rags and riches over his many years, but what he had now was something he hadn't experienced before. World affairs, politics, and even the current social unrest plaguing his population aside, there was a kind of unspoken contentment when lying here…and it was only ever here.

Four unremarkable walls in an unremarkable room, furnished with items that had been chosen more so for necessity than sentiment. The pine dresser, unmatching mahogany bedside tables, and the wooden desk hidden beneath mounds of unsorted paperwork, accompanied by a chair that functioned more like a coat rack; it was all just so…forgettable. Even the bed, adorned with nothing but simple linens and no decoration to speak of, was just another requisite for the makings of a bedroom.

But it was his bedroom, _their_ bedroom when travels abroad were possible. They were only two people who had ever slept in this room and this bed. The only people who ever used these sheets or hid personal items in the drawers of the bedside tables, and the only people who walked barefoot on the carpet or stored clothes in the dresser and over the chair. The curtains over the windows were only ever opened or closed by their hands, just as the door was never locked unless they willed it. They were the only forces with the power to alter anything in this place. It was a sanctuary beyond a world they couldn't control…a world Arthur, at least, had tried to control lifetimes ago only to discover how powerless he really was.

However, in this room…in this refuge there were no expectations or surprises. There were no enemies to fight and no allies to impress. There was only a simple room with simple fixtures, a place for everything and everything in its place. There was a smell to it that never changed; the scent of Alfred's same old detergent and same shampoo, with his same aftershave he never needed but still used. In the morning the smell was all over him and there was almost always a subtle soreness between his legs…but a quiet pleasure in the memories of what caused it.

Even the few mornings he woke without the ache, the smell and memories of the night before were never disappointing.

A part of him resented such happiness in this temporary domestication, as it only ever happened the few times of the year he came to visit Alfred in America. From an outcaste heir of Rome and whipping boy of Europe, he had grown into a global terror, an empire…and now this? Could anyone have predicted a former crusader and privateer would hang up his vengeance and weapons for this intermittent commonplace life? He had spent most of his days as one of the doubters and sometimes the lingering skepticism of this reality gnawed his thoughts. Sometimes when he lied beneath Alfred he felt the deep seeded urge to fight and conquer again. Sometimes he even gave into the compulsions, but never once had the man he dominated resented him for it.

In a way…this room had domesticated Alfred too. His once rambunctious young lad, his wild and eventually rebellious child, was now an independent world power and his strongest ally. His man had become something great and terrifying, just as he had been once, and made him both weary and proud.

It was funny, but everywhere other than this room his Alfred was America. Never once beyond the threshold had either of them ever addressed the other by their national name; they were simply Alfred and Arthur, my love and my darling, good morning and good night…

Gazing absently at this precious yet unremarkable room, stroking one of the arms around him and listening to Alfred's even breaths, he was at peace. In the few minutes before Alfred would wake, he could reflect upon all of these things and feel satisfied. It wasn't ever for more than a few days at a time but after so long without moments like this…it was enough.

He just wanted to enjoy being home…a little while longer.

**~Fin~**

* * *

><p><em>Notes from the Author:<em>

:) Hello, all~ This is another submission I made to the 365 Days of USUK calendar project (which you can find under the same name here on , Tumblr, and Livejournal). This was just a short, comfortable, domestic drabble I made in a state of relaxation. I hope you all enjoyed!

_Sincerely,_

_General Kitty Girl/Kelbora_


	15. Mine

**[WARNING: This fic is rated "MA" for mature audiences/adult only, and contains scenes of yaoi.**

**Please refrain from reading if this kind of content troubles or offends you.**

**I thank you for ****your maturity and respect.]**

**~Mine~**

The first time of the night is always the hardest to take you. Your size and lack of finesse makes bracing a necessity, having me burying my face in the pillow and gripping the sheets tighter until the incursion ends. When your body comes to a rest atop mine, you're kind enough to give me a few moments to breathe; which I know is difficult for you, as I can feel your pent up energy pulsing inside of me. As always, I take more pity on you then you've ever taken on me and I lie with a smile that I'm ready. You don't need any more prompting than that and now it's time to hold on.

It's difficult to think about anything but how much I wish you'd pace yourself, however you've always lived life beyond conventional speeds. I've feared how fast you were growing up since you were a child, how quickly you were picking up the worst of life's lessons and using them against me. When you raised your first pistol to me in Boston as nothing but a boy, you made it your life's mission to defy me: the Revolution, 1812, waiting so long in both World Wars, and now in being a brutish superpower and bedmate.

The only reason I ever hold on as I do is for those few precious moments when it's all over and in your exhaustion your subconscious hate wanes.

You like to think you've reconciled your need for superiority over me, but you're not fooling anyone. Even as you give a moment's pause when I gasp in pain, even when you kiss my neck and shoulder whispering your apologizes, I know it's not sincere…because you'll do it again and again before this is over. It's only after you've left your claim in me and proven yourself dominate that something other than this debauchery called '_love-making_' can begin. It's only then that you'll truly be benevolent, even contrite, and I can actually enjoy our time together.

When I'm no longer England to you, you take your time because I'm Arthur again. You're careful and gentle…for those moments you're not light years ahead or still trapped in that moment in Boston. I'm not your antiquated colleague any more than I am the master I know you're forever trying to conquer. I'm suddenly mortal when the initial fuck is over and am your lover again.

But the sad truth is, dear Alfred…I'm always England.

I am the United Kingdom. You're strong, my love, but I will always be stronger. I'm older and wiser. I know how to make you lower your defenses and bleed, and more terrible still I have the backbone to follow through. I do not bend to the will of my colonies, former or not, I only indulge them. Even though it causes me temporary pain and I must suffer the burn of your seed inside me, I know the trail of my nails down your skin and harsh love bites will last longer than your cum that flows from me when you pull out. I willingly give you this gift – this illusion that you own me – because I cannot have these moments where I can reclaim you otherwise…not when you would so willingly let me.

What a horrible truth that after all these years you're still so oblivious to how easily I'm able to manipulate you. You only have the faintest idea of what a selfish creature I am and how bitter I can be about defeat. Like you, I have not been entirely honest about back then…and how much giving you up was as much a stake to my heart as it was to my pride. You may no longer bear my flag upon your banners or pledge allegiance to my monarchy, but I take solace in knowing I own your heart again.

It's mine. You're mine. I only need to be more discreet about carving my name into every inch of you.

I don't have to suffer my submissive act long before you're done and tiredly holding me against you. You're breathing fast and burying your face in my neck, where you leave tender kisses…which I dutifully accept and stroke your arms around me.

We lay together like that for a while and only now am I getting aroused. The thought of what's to come heats the desire inside me and I'm impatient to get started. I turn over in your embrace and take your face in my hands, bringing you close to kiss your face and lips until you're kissing me back. You murmur the timid question as to whether or not I'm ready for another round and I follow the script precisely:

"It's your birthday…and tonight is about you."

**~Fin~**

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><p><em>Notes from the Author<em>:

Wow, I wrote this a LONG time ago as a character and content practice, but I actually liked it. This short is not in any of the known universes I am presently writing and is a stand alone piece. :) Thank you.

_Sincerely,_

_G.K.G./Kelbora_


	16. Eternal Star

**~Eternal Star~**

_(Greek Mythology USUK AU)_

The sea; vast ocean blue filled with life and feared for its infinite mysteries. Her velvet surface rose and fell with temperate breaths, lulling sea faring birds to sleep and granting safe passage to ships that dared to sail. Men, with ambitions as untamed as the mistress herself, journeyed far in search of glory to honor their gods and enrich their coffers. No adventure was too trivial to whet the intrigue of kings or peasants with something to prove, and any vessel with oars was considered suitable for the task.

On this night, one of the grander ships passing over Poseidon's domain was destined for a less than optimistic purpose. It's bow cut a path through the reflection of Nyx's canvas and made the stars dance below his hand skimming over them. Long fingers travelled along the smooth surface, chasing the small specs of light bobbing in the wake, as a salty Aegean breeze combed through his golden hair. Eyes the color of Olympus's fairest skies and skin kissed by his former patron's sun, the young man bore the attributes of his father's visage and embodied the light of life…though now, he was a servant to far darker things. His brand carefully concealed beneath layers of armor, he let his mind wander away from fate and into the eyes of the being surfacing below him – bringing a smile to his face.

"Arthur, I was beginning to think you'd forgotten about me."

Said being, adjusting to breathing air instead of water, shook the residual droplets clinging to his sandy colored hair and scowled. "Don't be so ridiculous. Tis an impossible achievement to forget you, Alfred of Delphi."

The man smiled wider and waited until his hand was accepted to pull the other onto the ship's railing. A bare human torso appeared, followed by the emerald-scaled tail of an elegant aquatic creature. His companion was a true son of Achelous, the river god and father of merfolk, and had made a most precarious journey from the mainland to see him.

Once comfortably situated, the merman took a deep breath of air and exhaled contently, leaning into the current with his hands anchoring him on the rail. "How I've dreamt of living a life sailing above the water…even a mortal life."

Alfred cast his gaze back to the ocean and nostalgically remembered just such a life. Wild, free, with exploits that echoed through the ballads and spoken histories of civilization. Even Olympus still remembered the accolades of his life…even his sire had immortalized his victories and sorrowful end in song. "It is a joy I will never forget."

Arthur turned softened eyes on his companion and comfortingly covered the man's hand with his own. Unlike the people on this voyage, all sleeping below deck, Arthur knew Alfred's story and true purpose here as an agent of Hades. "Which soul are you here for?"

Alfred sighed and rested his arms on the rail. "The king's son, who was told he would merely be overseeing this farce of an expedition. The prince has no idea he's a sacrifice to settle his father's debt over an unsatisfied bargain with Hades."

Arthur remained quiet and nodded his head in understanding. No god took well to oath breakers, especially where life and death was concerned. He didn't need to know the details of whatever deal this king had struck with the lord of the Underworld, as he knew only life could pay for life…meaning this king had asked for some reprieve from mortality in exchange for shortening another's time that would keep things in balance.

"I feel for the prince. I know what it's like to lose your soul in someone else's deal," Alfred added, and Arthur squeezed the hand in his tighter.

Alfred had been born a mortal son of Apollo, the life-loving god of the sun. From childhood to adulthood, Alfred had blazed an existence of reckless abandonment, never stopping for a moment because all of life was an adventure to be had. He'd sailed to every corner of the known world, battled hellish monsters, and braved perils only a demi-god could have ever hoped survived. He had once been able to heal the injured and sick with his voice, and defend the weak with his unparalleled archery. But it was his pure spirit that had earned him his greatest triumph…warming the jaded heart of a merman longing for life beneath the open sky.

Alfred was everything Arthur had ever dreamt of being. Through his gift of storytelling and even sharing an adventure or two together, Arthur felt as though he had lived that dream alongside this precious soul, his personal sun in an otherwise lonely and lightless existence.

Sadly, his sun had set far too soon.

Years ago, when Alfred had returned home for the first time in nearly a decade, an emissary from Sparta had come to the city in search of a divine son of Apollo. Through violent means, this emissary had found Alfred and abducted him, taking him to a temple of Ares where a priest had been waiting for them. Evidently, the gods had gotten into a bloody tiff and a prized son of Ares had been slain, the fault for which had fallen on Apollo. The fight had had nothing to do with Alfred, but the vengeful war god had demanded retribution for the crime and Alfred had been the first child of the sun found. He'd been knelt before a statue of Ares and his blood used to settle the debt.

His father, at least, had mourned his loss; but it had been Arthur who grieved the most.

Given his lineage, the lord of the dead had decided to make use of the soul that had prematurely found it's way to his realm. Alfred had been made an agent of Tartarus, charged with collecting souls to settle debts that kept the flow of souls in balance. Though it was a far better fate than others that might have befallen a demi-god in the afterlife, it was an anguishing occupation for one who, despite all that had happened, still loved life.

Knowing the weight of his friend's torment, Arthur laid his head on the other's shoulder and eventually Alfred's cheek came to rest on him too. "I brought you a gift tonight."

He knew he had Alfred's interest when he could hear the cautious smile in his voice. "Oh? Dare I ask where you're hiding it?"

Arthur chuckled and raised his hand from the rail to out over the sea, letting the cool glow of moonlight reflecting off the water pool in his hand and form his gift. He didn't have to see Alfred's face to know it was lit with that wondrous spark of boyish excitement he always got when witnessing Arthur's magic. It was so pure…and he treasured it.

The spell was complete and in Arthur's hand hung a modest silver necklace with an oval pendant, made of pearl. Alfred hesitated before reaching and letting Arthur place it in his hand. Though he was eager to examine it he made sure to treat it delicately. Knowing his gift would be handled with the reverence it deserved, Arthur raised his head and whispered, "Say my name."

The warrior quirked a brow but obeyed, "Arthur."

The pendant began to glow with the same soft and silvery light that created it, forming a small star in Alfred's hand that left him in awe. It was so beautiful and undiminished by the dark night; it was like holding a piece of heaven. "Arthur…"

"It's easy to forget what the world beyond Tartarus is like, but I…I never want you to forget it or the most beautiful thing about it," Arthur began and felt the burn of tears he fought not to shed. "And that's the light you brought to it."

He knew Alfred's eyes were upon him but he couldn't bear to look back just yet. Losing Alfred had been the hardest experience of his long life and though Alfred would return to this world from time to time…it was still only a matter of time before what made Alfred so special was lost in Tartarus's void. His heart ached thinking about it; the future was so bleak without this beautiful soul to share it with. When he knew he was about to lose the battle with his grief, he felt a soft kiss on his cheek and his breath caught.

Alfred was now resting his head on Arthur's shoulder, holding the still glowing light before them and…happy. They stayed together like that, watching the rosy tips of dawn spread over the sky, until Alfred closed his hand over pendant and used their last moments alone to whisper:

"Thank you for being the best part of life."

**~Fin~**

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><p><em>Notes from the Author<em>:

;v;/ Hello all and welcome back to my archives. This was another drabble done for the 365 Days of USUK project, and something I'm rather proud of (I've always wanted to do something with Greek Mythology)~ I thank **Faux **for the writing prompt and hope you all have enjoyed reading it!

Sincerely,

_General Kitty Girl_


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